The Nine Consequences of One Night and a Door
by ddpjclaf
Summary: The teenaged daughter and son of sworn rivals meet with a bang one drunken night against the bathroom door. Now everyone must come to terms with the 9 consequences of one night, a girl, a boy, and a door. OOC AH/AU Lemonade. Vulgar language. Mature.
1. What the Hell Did I Do?

****The characters of The Mortal Instruments are owned by Cassandra Clare. No infringement meant. All story plots and words belong to ddpjclaf. Please do not copy, reproduce, or translate without permission.****

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter One: "What the hell did I do?"<strong>

Well . . . this story kind of came out of nowhere, but the vision was so strong I had to write it. I'm a little nervous because it's going to include a subject that some people have very strong feelings about, and those feelings are not necessarily good, but I think it's important to explore all different kinds of subjects when writing, so I'm broaching one now. I think you'll be able to gather what this is going to be about from the title, summary, and the content of this first chapter. If this is not a subject you care to read about, then, please, do not read on. I won't be offended if you stop now.

I will warn you now: I have a feeling that this story will include more graphic description and vulgar language. Already, in this first chapter, things have been said that I would never have said in my other fics. There will be sexual talk and situations. I will discuss more at the bottom.

Both of these characters (Jace and Clary) are highly flawed and their actions stupid. Beyond stupid. I fully expect you to become enraged with either or both at one time or another in the course of this story. If you need to vent in a review, fine, just please don't attack.

Oh, and Clary is definitely OOC. Jace probably will be too.

_Chapter Song:  
><em>

_**Sex on Fire – Kings of Leon_

* * *

><p>Clary's cheek pressed hard against the cool porcelain of the toilet bowl. Her stomach roiled and flipped, a raging torrent of acid and whatever traces of last night's boozefest remained after heaving at least twenty times. Never, in all the times she'd partied, had she ever felt this horrible. How the hell much did she drink?<p>

Her arms fell from the sides of the toilet and hit the tile below. She had no energy left. Not even to hold herself upright to puke. As she started to slip, Clary felt hands grab her and hoist her up against the wall, her mouth still aimed at the bowl. She groaned as another wave of nausea bowled over her.

"Never again," she croaked, swallowing against the urge to vomit once more. "Do you hear me, Izzy? Never. Again."

"Yeah, yeah," Isabelle, her best friend, said as she gathered Clary's long, red hair and clipped it to the back of her head. "That's what you say every time." She reached down and started tugging the calf-high spiked-heel boots from Clary's legs. "At least you looked damn hot. I knew these boots were a good idea." Isabelle grinned and started to pet them like they were alive and had feelings.

Clary glared at the boots from the corner of her eye. She remembered the look on her dad's face when she'd come out of her room with them on after changing from her cheerleading outfit. He'd been sitting at the table, going over his coaching notes after the game. The game they lost to Northwest Academy, their rival school and the team of Clary's dad's nemesis in business and in life.

He'd prepared his team all season for the match against Northwest. He was determined to win. To rub a victory into the face of Northwest's head coach, Michael Wayland. But, like always, when they didn't win, it was everyone else's fault. The offense couldn't open the line. The defense couldn't hold it. The quarterback needed to stop acting like a pansy girl and throw the ball into someone's hands or sacrifice himself trying. But most of all, the blame fell to Michael Wayland.

"That damned Wayland," he grumbled into his papers. "Never plays fair. Always throwing in dirty plays. Pays off the refs. Got that kid of his on steroids or something too."

He didn't know Clary was in the hall, and she didn't want him to. The last thing she needed was to listen to him go on and on and on about how Michael Wayland was the bane of his existence. Not tonight. It was an ongoing thing—since he and Michael faced off against each other as junior high quarterbacks. From what Clary had heard from her mother, Michael Wayland had been a gifted athlete all throughout high school, always besting her father, Valentine, no matter how much Valentine practiced. It drove him absolutely insane with jealousy. So much so that when he found out Michael would be the new head coach of the Northwest Bobcats, well, he just _had _to find a way to snag the job as Southeast Knight's head coach. And snag it he did. But it consumed him. Changed him. Made him into a man none of them, her mother and brother included, recognized anymore.

Clary had tried to keep quiet and sneak to the front door without him ever noticing she was leaving, but the heel of her five-inch boot caught the tile hard and the sound echoed through the room. Her father turned, and his eyes widened.

"Where in the hell do you think you're going dressed like that, Clarissa?"

Clary glanced down at her attire. Aside from the calf-high black stripper boots, she wore a tight black skirt that barely covered her panties, a snug, white tummy shirt which showed her belly button ring, and a bright green button up shirt, left undone and tied and the waist. "Out with Isabelle. And what's wrong with what I'm wearing?" she asked, as if she couldn't guess, but her father's reaction was one reason she dressed like this. Getting a rise out of him and letting him know he wasn't the only one who existed in this house was part of her daily routine. Shower, dress, hair, makeup, breakfast, school, TV, piss dad off, sleep. All in a day's work.

"Nothing. If you were a two-bit whore instead of a fifteen-year-old girl. Go change." Her father turned and went back to his intensive brooding.

"I'm almost sixteen," she retorted.

Her father ignored her and continued grumbling to himself.

Clary huffed and stomped back up the stairs, knowing how much her father hated that. With a slam of her door for good measure, Clary heard her father yell at her to knock it off from downstairs. She grinned and crossed to the window. The branches of a nearby oak stretched close enough to the ledge, she could easily climb down. Stripping the boots from her legs and throwing them to the ground outside, she launched herself onto the nearest branch and escaped into the night.

Now, as Clary glared over at Isabelle and the boots, she did not feel such affection for them, even though they'd accomplished her primary goal of goading her father. "Ugh," she said. "I hate those boots."

Isabelle clutched them to her chest and dropped her mouth open in offense. "Blasphemy! Take it back right now!"

"No. This is all their fault."

"How in God's name is your hangover the fault of my two-hundred and fifty dollar boots?"

"If they hadn't made me look like such a wanton skank, guys wouldn't have been pouring drinks down my throat all night long."

"Of course, and your ability to 'just say no' was also diminished by tight leather and stiletto heels?"

Clary nodded and groaned when her head pounded. Everything on her hurt: her head, her stomach, her eyes, her feet from the stupid heels, her— Oh. Oh, no. Oh, _God_! Clary gasped when she registered where else she hurt. It wasn't necessarily a painful hurt, but a burning, uncomfortable, sore kind of hurt.

Oh no. No, no, NO!

"What?" Isabelle leaned forward and placed her hand on Clary's head. "Are you gonna spew again?"

Clary shook her head no, then yes, unsure which answer was correct. "Izzy . . . did I . . .? What happened last night?" Her head was a mass of fog, only very small fractions of images breaking through.

"You mean . . ." Isabelle's brows rose nearly to her hairline. "You don't remember?"

Clary shook her head no, but slowly, things started to break through. A flash of a grin. Whispered words in her ear. Chills raking up and down her back. Warm hands trailing up her thigh. Lips, wet and urgent on hers. Her back against the bathroom door. Her hands wound in thick hair. Hot breaths. Cool tongues. Digging fingers. Fullness. Pain.

"Oh, God!" Clary covered her mouth.

"What?" Isabelle screeched. "You can't say 'oh, God' and not elaborate!"

"I think I had sex last night. No—not sex." She met Isabelle's eyes. "Crazy hot slam-me-against-the-door-leaving-me-unable-to-speak-or-even-remember-sex."

"What do you mean you 'think'? Don't you know?"

"I don't know! I mean, I never . . . before. But . . . I—I'm sore. Like, _really_ sore! You know . . ." Clary lowered her voice to a whisper. "Down _there_."

Isabelle's eyes lightened and she reached out and smacked Clary in the shoulder. "You whore! Tell me all about it! Was it good? Did you . . . you know . . ." She waggled her brows.

"I—" Clary blinked and tried to focus the flashes in her mind, but none of it became clear. "I—I don't know." She glanced up and saw Izzy's excitement falter. "I don't remember anything except for a few flashes."

"Well, who was it?"

Clary's stomach started to churn once more as she realized she had no face, no name, no identifying feature except the way his voice made her body hum when he whispered, "God, I want you," in her ear. She shivered with the memory.

"I don't know." Her heart beat hard against her ribs, the action only exacerbating the rolling of her stomach. "I have no idea who it was. I don't even know if we used— Oh, God, Iz! What if we didn't use . . ." Her stomach was out of control now, wave upon wave of nausea crashed over her.

"It's okay," Izzy said, and placed her hand on Clary's back. "Don't worry, Clary. We'll find out, okay?"

No. No, it wasn't okay. None of this was okay. Clary had sex and didn't know his name or his face or if he'd had enough sense to sheath himself before impaling her against the wall. Oh God, this was the stupidest thing she'd ever done. Tears welled in her eyes and she let out an enraged sob.

Isabelle continued to pat her back and tried to reassure her with her words. "We'll go to Family Planning this afternoon. Then we'll find out who it was, Clary. Please don't worry. We'll find out, and when we do, we'll string that virtue stealing door banger up by his balls. Asshole! I promise, I'll do it."

But it was no use. What difference would it make now? There was no turning back time and changing it. She'd done the worst thing she could think of. She'd had possibly unprotected sex with a complete stranger—at least he was a stranger in the context of her drunken mind. He could be a boy from her school, or a really _real_ stranger! What if people found out? What if her father did? What if she got an STD? What if—

"Uhh" Clary groaned as a stab of pain, followed by the worst nausea she'd ever felt gripped her. She bent forward, her chin hitting the edge of the toilet, just before her stomach heaved and emptied her body of every last drop of leftover liquor.

.o.O.o.

From the pounding in his head, Jace figured opening his eyes would be a very, very bad thing. At the moment, his stomach felt fine, but there was no telling how it would feel once he let himself come to full consciousness. Shit. Why the hell did he let Sebastian talk him into doing those shots? Drinking wasn't his favorite thing—actually, it wasn't the drinking he minded, it was the aftermath that had him shying away from the bottle. Well, at least today was Saturday, and his birthday. His eighteenth birthday. Finally. No reason to get up and do anything.

Unfortunately, his bladder had other ideas. With a groan, he shifted in bed, his arm brushing along the side of something very warm.

What the hell?

Opening one eye, he squinted into the bright room, his gaze falling on a sleeping figure on the opposite side of the bed. Her blonde hair draped across the pillow and tickled his nose. He swatted it out of the way and sat up, wondering who in the hell this was in his bed, he couldn't see her face and therefore had no idea. As he looked around the room, he realized this wasn't his room at all. Where in the hell was he? Girly pink curtains covered the window and an abundance of makeup and hair stuff covered a small table near the door.

The room spun a little, but not bad enough to nauseate him. Jace glanced down at himself. Fully clothed. Huh. That was interesting. Perhaps he hadn't done anything with the chick beside him. He hoped not. If his father found out about this, he'd have his balls clenched in a vise.

His father had only one rule: no girls during the season. None. No dating. No flirting. And definitely, absolutely, no sex. He claimed the built up tension helped keep Jace on his toes, helped his game stay on target. Jace didn't know if it actually worked, but he wasn't about to test its validity when they still had one more game against Southeast this season. He would never hear the end of it if he lost the game to his dad's arch enemy, Valentine Morgenstern.

The game last night had been bad enough. They'd only pulled off the victory by one extra point. One measly extra point. And Jace's inability to throw in the last minute, which resulted in him having to run and then being shoved off the field into the opposing team's cheerleaders, did not sit well with his father. After the game he'd reamed Jace a new one in front of the whole team. On the bright side, staring up at the spankys of that little red-headed flyer hadn't been so bad. He'd even awarded her his best smirk, and he'd felt the heat in her stare as she'd scowled and given him the finger. Yeah, she gestured tough. But she wanted him. They all wanted him.

With a groan, he took in a deep breath, trying to slow the spinning in his head. The girl beside him rustled and let out a yawn.

"Thank God," she grumbled. "You took up the entire bed."

Jace glanced back and focused on the girl's face. Annika Verlac. Sebastian's sister.

"Shit," he said aloud. Sebastian was going to kill him.

Annika looked up, the look in her eyes telling him she knew exactly what had him cursing, and scowled before snuggling back into her covers. "In your dreams, Wayland."

Relief washed over him. Perhaps he didn't screw up his playing streak by messing with his best offensive lineman's sister.

"So we didn't—"

Her eyes flew open. "You're not exactly my type." She pointed to the picture of her and a pretty Asian girl kissing that was encased in a frame and placed on a night stand next to the bed. "And even if you were, I still wouldn't screw you."

Jace grinned and rose from the bed. "Yeah, you would. Everyone would."

Annika snorted and flipped him off. "Next time you get drunk off your ass, crash on the couch or in Seb's room. I'm not interested in sharing my bed with any guy."

Jace stole out of the room in search of the bathroom. He found it a few doors down and shut himself inside. As he walked over to the toilet, he caught his reflection in the mirror. His hair was a complete mess, and not the type of mess he got from sleeping. It was the kind of mess that looked like someone had had their hands in it, and they weren't just admiring its softness. Jace frowned and reached up to fix his hair, noticing a painful pull. Wincing, he touched his shoulder and felt something raised underneath. He pulled his shirt over his head and turned. On the back of his shoulder were four small crescent-shaped scabs.

Jace leaned forward and squinted into his reflection. Damn it. There was no mistaking what those were caused from. Fingernails.

Jace looked over his other shoulder and down his back but found no more marks. Maybe he hadn't. Maybe he'd just made out a little. That wouldn't ruin anything. He'd still be fine then. Convincing himself that's all it was, Jace moved away from the mirror and stepped up to the toilet. With a yawn, he undid the snap and lowered his zipper, pulling his boxer briefs down in the front to relieve himself.

It didn't take more than a few seconds for him to notice the problem. When he pulled his fingers away, they were sticky. And not sticky from anything that might be expelled after a very nice dream. No, this kind of sticky was different. Better, yet so much worse.

"Shit," he said, and raised a hand to his hair, staring at himself in disbelief. "What the hell did you do?" he asked his offending appendage, as if it could answer. Of course it didn't, so Jace tried to remember what happened.

There was nothing.

His mind was a complete blank. He thought maybe he remembered a laugh, soft, addicting. A flash of red. Hell, he didn't know. His head was full of fog. But the evidence spoke for itself. He'd had a lot more fun than he should have the night before, and unless he'd magically procured a condom from someone else, he most likely hadn't used one of those either. Jace never carried condoms during the season. It wasn't out of a lack of responsibility; it was to reinforce his temporary abstinence. If he didn't have them, it pretty much stopped the urge to get himself a piece. The practice had worked the last three years, so why change anything now? But still . . .

No. He wouldn't do that. Would he? Maybe he'd let a girl suck him off, and she'd had a lollipop just before. Maybe that was it. Even that wasn't really allowed, but considering the alternative . . . He'd never, ever have sex without a condom. He wasn't that stupid. How many times had his father drilled that into his head?

"Don't be a dick, Jace. Cover yours," was his father's favorite saying.

And he'd made sure Jace knew it. Made sure he knew what would happen if he didn't. More times than Jace wanted to count. "Everyone wants a piece of the Waylands," he'd said. "We're rich, we're good looking, but we're also smart. No woman will ever trap us, son."

Shaking the thought from his head, he finished up in the bathroom, cleaned himself off with a few wet wipes he managed to find in the cabinet above the toilet, and went to wash his hands. When he finished, he turned to face the door, and an image overtook him.

The flash of red from earlier came clearer, and there was a lot of it, hanging in soft curls from a head that was thrown back against the door. A creamy white throat. Legs clad in black boots wrapped around his waist. Squeezing him, enveloping him. His hands digging into warm flesh. Nails in his shoulder. Pain. Pleasure. So soft. So warm. So, _so_ good.

Shit, he thought again as the realization crashed over him. Jace stumbled back until his back hit the opposite wall. He stared wide-eyed at the door, the very door in which he'd had some girl pinned the night before, his heart crashing in his chest. He wanted to hit it, to put his fist through the wood, as if the door had somehow caused all of this. Maybe it had! God-damned hot door sex! He'd really done it. Not only had he had sex during the season, he was pretty sure he'd had unprotected sex and had no idea who with.

Shit!

Double, triple, quadruple _shit_!

* * *

><p><em>Okay, now that we have the first chapter out of the way, I can breathe. Sort of.<em>

_Now that you've read this, and the title of the story, you can probably guess where this is going. Yes, we're going to delve into the very touchy subject of teenage pregnancy. And, seeing as Clary and Jace's fathers are enemies, expect for allegations of the criminal kind to be tossed around due to Clary's age. If these are not subjects you care to read about, please bow out now. I'm not writing this to give you a story full of surprising twists and turns, so it's kind of a given that certain developments will come to pass. I'm not doing it for shock value, or to teach anyone a lesson. I'm writing about two characters and the situation they've gotten themselves into. Yes, this situation has been done, probably in each one of its facets, but it hasn't been done by me, so, I want to write it. I hope you'll want to read it. :)_

_I'm not promising a fluffy story here. Yes, the way I write usually involves fluff and I'm sure there will be some in here, but this isn't a pretty story. Teenage pregnancy seems to be romanticized in books and television, and I'm not interested in doing that. I'm going to do my best to tell it like it is. For that reason, I'm sure many people will not like this story.  
><em>

_This is so far, unbeta'd. My beta is super busy right now, so I don't know when it might be done. Please forgive any errors you find._

_I do not have an updating schedule. I'm still writing my original and it comes first. I'll write this as it comes. If you'd like to follow, please put it on alert._

_Thanks so much! And I hope you like it. ~ddpjclaf_


	2. He was really    tall?

****The character names of The Mortal Instruments are owned by Cassandra Clare. The original content, ideas and intellectual property of this story are owned by ddpjclaf, 2011. Please do not copy, reproduce, or translate without express written permission.****

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Two: "He was really . . . tall?"<strong>

_**Well, here we go. Y'all ready for this? Remember how I told you I was going for more realism this time? Well, this is pretty straight to the point of what can happen after. And what a girl who has no idea who she was with, or even what she did, might have to do… And let the awkwardness commence!_

_Love to my beta, Lightlacedwithbeauty, for editing ch.1 and this one for me. As always, she rocks. **love**_

_Chapter Songs:_

_**A Bad Dream – Keane_

_**Closer – Joshua Radin_

* * *

><p>After Jace got a grip on himself, he brushed his teeth with his finger, swished mouthwash around in his mouth three different times to erase the taste that could only be described as ass, and combed his fingers through his hair. When he made his way down the stairs, he found Sebastian sitting on a stool at the kitchen island, a bowl of cereal in front of him and his face buried in a sports magazine.<p>

"Well, good morning, Sun—"

"Call me Sunshine and you'll have one less nut," Jace said.

"Touchy, touchy." Sebastian took another bite of his cereal.

Jace groaned and lowered his head to rest on his crossed arms. The pounding felt like someone was using his skull for drum practice. "I feel like hell. Why'd you make me do all those shots?"

"You shouldn't make bets you can't win." Sebastian chuckled and pushed a bottle of water and some Advil across the counter. "Lightweight."

"You know I don't usually drink." Jace fussed with the bottle of pain reliever until the child-proof cap finally popped opened. He dumped two into his palm and downed them both with water. The liquid hit his stomach and immediately made it start to churn. He grimaced and laid his head back down. He needed to remember this feeling, commit it to memory in case he ever had even a fleeting thought of being such a colossal moron again. No drinking. Ever.

"Coulda fooled me. But you seemed like you were having fun. Especially during the latter portion of the night."

Jace peered over at Sebastian, still keeping his head down. "What do you mean?"

"You know." He tipped his bowl up to drink the milk left in the bottom. "With the little red head. Dude, I didn't think you'd ever come up for air." Sebastian got up and walked across the kitchen to deposit his bowl in the sink. "I've never seen you so all over a chick."

Jace felt the heat drain from his face. He'd still harbored the slight fantasy that he'd imagined everything. Sebastian just shot that dream all to hell.

"Hey, man," Sebastian said, and moved closer. "You all right? You're not gonna puke, are you?"

Jace drew in a breath and forced his rising panic to stop. "No. I'm just . . . I don't remember much." And what he did remember, he wanted so badly not to be true.

"No shit?"

"No shit."

"Damn," Sebastian said. "How the hell much _did_ you drink?"

"I have no idea." Jace rubbed his hands over his face. "Tell me, though, what do you mean I was all over this chick?" He had a pretty good idea what happened in the bathroom upstairs, but wondered what he'd done in view of everyone else. And more importantly, what he'd done that could get back to his dad.

"You really don't remember?"

"I told you I didn't," Jace snapped, his annoyance finally breaking through. "Just . . . tell me, all right?"

"Fine, jeez," Sebastian said. "Well, I meant what I said. I've never seen you mack so hard with a girl. You were like practically dry humping her in the middle of the living room."

Jace groaned and covered his face with his hands. He knew better than to drink. He_knew_ it. Why hadn't he just said no? "And then what?" His voice cracked on the word "what."

"Dunno." Sebastian shrugged. "I came into the kitchen for a refill and when I got back, you were both gone."

"Great."

"Hey, man. Don't worry about it. No one's gonna tell."

"What are you talking about?"

Sebastian's eyes met his. "Everyone knows about 'the rule'."

Jace just stared.

"For what it's worth, I think it's bullshit. Who plays better sexually frustrated, you know?"

Jace pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. This was a nightmare. "I don't even know her damn name. I mean, that's kind of a dick move." In the past, Jace had been an ass, a cocky douche, but he had never been a dick. He had standards.

"Who cares?" Sebastian slapped Jace on the shoulder. "Less mess that way. Besides, I think she's just some scrub from Southeast anyway. They totally owe us a few of their skanks, know what I mean?"

Jace didn't say anything and lowered his head back to the counter. The cold Formica against his forehead helped a bit with the pounding. Something about this whole thing wasn't sitting quite right with him. He didn't make it a habit to sleep with random girls and not even get their names. But even more so, he had no idea what kind of girl this girl was. She couldn't be so innocent if she let him bang her against a door without even giving him her name. She'd probably let any guy do the same thing. What if she was diseased or something equally disgusting? God, he'd have to go get tested now. A shudder worked its way through his body. He hated needles.

The more he thought about it, the more he thought maybe Sebastian was right. Chances were, if he didn't know her name, she didn't know his either. The last thing he wanted was for some girl tracking him down, claiming she'd been with him, and his dad finding out. No, that wouldn't be good for anyone involved.

Yeah. This was best. He'd just push it aside, pretend it didn't happen. He'd forget about the girl with fiery red hair and sexy black boots. He'd forget the way she clung to him, and sunk her nails into his shoulder. He'd forget the fact that he had no idea whether or not he'd had a barrier between himself and her. And he'd definitely forget that he didn't even know her name.

.o.O.o.

Clary sat alone, dressed in only a thin paper gown, the chilly air in the sterile, clinic room giving her goose bumps. She shifted on the table, the paper liner sticking to her skin and crinkling beneath her. Her bare, pale legs hung over the end, not even reaching half way to the ground. Her eyes shifted to the chair near the door where her pile of clothing lay. A pair of purple panties with a small bow on the front peeked out from the fold of her jeans. Irrationally, she wanted to jump up and tuck them down inside so no one would see them. She knew it was stupid, the doctor would be seeing a lot more of her in a few minutes than her preferred brand of underwear. But somehow it felt like if she at least hid them, she'd hold onto a shred of her dignity.

When she'd first come into the room, a nurse took her paperwork—which she'd fudged to say she was seventeen—then took her vitals and asked her a few questions. Things like family history of disease, whether or not she was on any sort of medication, etcetera. But when the nurse asked if she was currently sexually active, Clary almost choked on her tongue. She actually didn't know how to answer the question. The most truthful answer would be: no. Other than the night before, Clary hadn't done more than get felt up in the back of her last boyfriend's car. Did doing it once count as 'sexually active'? She guessed it probably did.

On the way out of the room, the nurse gave Clary the gown she wore now and told her to strip—completely. No bra. No panties. They wanted her completely naked under the oversized napkin. Then she'd left and Clary was alone. Isabelle sat out in the waiting room, and Clary knew she'd come back if she wanted her to, but this was embarrassing enough without an audience. Still, she couldn't help but wish she wasn't all by herself. In one weak moment, she even wished her mom was there to hold her hand. But she knew that was an impossibility. Her mother would never understand. How could she? Her only daughter went against everything she was taught and got so drunk she lost her virginity to a stranger against a bathroom door. That was not a conversation Clary wanted to have anytime soon.

Since she'd woken up hung-over and sicker than she'd ever been at Isabelle's that morning, little things about the night before were coming back to her. It wasn't much—certainly not as much as she needed, that was for sure, but she did remember arriving at the party on the north side of the city. It was loud and packed. Mostly with kids that attended Northwest Academy, so she didn't know many of them. The drinks flowed heavily, and Clary indulged. She shouldn't have. It had been stupid, but at the time she just wanted to loosen up, to fit in and have a good time. Well, apparently, she'd had a _really_ good time.

She still didn't remember much about what happened inside the bathroom or what preceded it, but there were a few more things that were becoming clearer. She was now pretty sure the boy she was with was blond, and had a lot of hair. The feel of it between her fingers was one of the memories that stood out the most to her. It seemed like a really stupid thing to remember, but she couldn't force her mind to give her the images she desperately wanted. She was also pretty sure he was a lot taller than her. Not that that was hard to do when she barely reached five foot two in shoes. But she recalled herself looking up at him, way up, and seeing that smirk. Yes, she remembered that too. But all his other features: nose, forehead, jaw, and eyes . . . it was like someone had poured acid over just those part of his face in her memories and they were nothing but a blur. She couldn't see anything but that smile, and a hint of the color of his hair. It wasn't enough to identify him, and she had no idea if he'd even told her his name.

As frustrating as not remembering his physical appearance was, even more so were the things she _did_ remember. It would be so much more helpful if she could recall the shape of his nose or the color of his eyes, but what her mind chose to recall wasn't either of those. She didn't know what his hands looked like, whether or not he bit his nails or let them grow out some, if his fingers were short and stubby or long and slender, but she sure as hell remembered what they felt like. How they'd touched her carefully, gently, traced the bones of her face, cupped her cheeks in their palms, and ran lines down her sides and over her stomach before dipping into her skirt and touching her where no one ever had before. And when they had, they hadn't been rushed, they hadn't hurt, they'd made her feel good. They'd made her feel wanted and made her _want_ more in return.

Even now, in this place, being in the situation she knew she was in, remembering what they did to her, made her cheeks flame.

Before she had a chance to ponder any more, there was a knock on the door and it opened just a crack.

"Miss Morgenstern? May I come in?"

"Yes." Clary's voice cracked on the word and her chest tightened, constricting the airflow into her lungs.

The door opened wider, and a short, dark-haired woman stepped inside closing it behind her. She had kind, almond-shaped eyes and a genuine smile. It wasn't judging or sad like Clary had expected. Clary relaxed minutely.

The doctor moved further inside and held out her hand for Clary's. "I'm Dr. Penhallow."

Clary took the woman's hand. "Clary."

Dr. Penhallow sat on a rolling stool situated just under the counter that stretched along the side of the room. She rolled it over next to Clary and crossed her legs, laying her clipboard on her thighs. "So, what can I do for you today, Clary?"

Clary bit her lower lip and twisted her hands together in her lap. "Well, I, uh . . ."

"It's okay, Clary. I'm here to help you."

Clary swallowed and lowered her eyes to her lap. Maybe if she wasn't looking at her, she could get this out easier. The last thing she wanted to do was talk to this woman about her apparent sex life. She didn't want to be here at all, but Isabelle had insisted, saying she at least needed to be tested for STD's. But this was beyond mortifying. "I think I—I think maybe I had sex last night." She chanced a glance up.

The doctor's expression hadn't changed. "You think?"

"Yeah, I—I can't really remember everything."

"Oh." Dr. Penhallow scribbled something on the chart in front of her. "Were you under the influence of something at the time?"

Clary nodded.

"Alcohol?"

Another nod.

"All right, Clary. What makes you think you had sex?"

The question shocked Clary. She hadn't really thought she'd have to answer something like that. How embarrassing to not really know. "Well, I'm sore . . . down there, and . . ."

"And?"

"And I was bleeding. I mean, I found blood in . . ." Her face heated. God, she didn't even talk about stuff like her period with her mom. Now she was talking about some stupid boy making her bleed with a complete stranger.

Dr. Penhallow reached out and laid her hand on top of Clary's. Clary looked up. The woman's eyes were still kind, understanding. "You found blood in your underwear? So you were a virgin?"

Clary nodded again.

"How much? Would you say it was a lot?"

"A lot?"

"Like you might find during menstruation?" She paused. "Basically I'm asking if it's possible you started your period. I know it sounds silly, but the mistake has been made many times before."

"Oh." More blood to her cheeks. "No, it wasn't anything like that."

"Okay." Dr. Penhallow pursed her lips, then smashed them together like she didn't like what she was about to say. "Clary, I'm going to ask you a question, and I need you to understand that it's something I'm required to ask in situations like these. However much I don't like asking, and you won't like answering, I need you to be honest. Can you do that?"

Clary's stomach churned. "Y—yes."

The doctor took in a breath. "From what you can recall, was anything forced on you? Did this boy hurt you to get you to submit? Or were you a willing participant?"

Clary took a few seconds to try to stop her voice from shaking, but didn't hesitate with her answer. For as much as she didn't remember, the things she did made her certain. "I—I was willing."

"Okay, dear." Dr. Penhallow smiled and stood, walking over to the counter and grabbing a couple of latex gloves, snapping them onto her hands. "If you could lie back on the table and scoot your bottom all the way to the edge, we can get started."

Clary hesitated, thinking about how much she didn't want to do this, before complying. She lay back onto the cold table, the paper making that sickening crinkling sound once again. She scooted down as far as she could without feeling like she wasn't falling off the end. The squeak of the wheels on the rolling chair sounded and Clary felt the table jiggle beneath her.

There was a loud clang and the table jerked once more. Clary's heart pounded, as the sound of metal scraping on metal reached her ears. What was she doing down there? Clary kept her knees together, her feet just barely touching the edge of the table.

"Okay, Clary. I'm going to need you to put your feet in the stirrups."

Clary glanced down and saw a large, metal arm-like thing sticking up from the end of the bed—two of them actually, one on each side. They looked like one end of a salad tong. Clary slowly stretched her feet toward the contraption. It was the most awkward thing, trying to keep her knees together while her feet reached outward. Finally, she had them both in, and lay there as still as possible, her bare bottom facing the door. Oh God. If someone walked in, they'd see everything! She wanted to sit up, to cover herself and tell the doctor this was all a big mistake. That she didn't need this, didn't need to be there after all. Instead, she clenched her hands into fists at her sides and closed her eyes.

"Clary? I need you to open your legs now, please."

She felt the doctor's hand touch her knee, and she jumped. The last thing she wanted to do was spread her legs! That's what got her into this mess in the first place. She kept them tensed and pressed together. She couldn't seem to loosen her muscles even a little. Finally, with a little prodding from the doctor, her legs parted, shaking under Dr. Penhallow's touch.

"It's okay. Just relax."

Clary let out a slow breath and stared up at the tiles in the drop ceiling. There were lights in every other one, two vents in the front and back of the room, and a few sprinklers. On the walls were posters of side shots of women in various stages of pregnancy, part of their bodies cut out to show the layers and point out all her female parts. On the desk was a model of a uterus, a removable fetus stuffed inside. Clary shivered.

"You're going to feel me touch you now," she said.

And Clary did. It was clinical. Cold. Rough. Funny how what she remembered of a teenage boy's touch could be more gentle than this forty-something female doctor's.

"You're going to feel some pressure now. It may be a bit uncomfortable. Just try to relax the best you can."

"Okay," Clary said.

She couldn't see what the doctor was doing, but she could hear. There was a tinkling of metal, and a strange squirting sound, like something was being squeezed out of a tube.

"Here we go," Dr. Penhallow said.

And that's when Clary felt it. Something hard and cold _right__there._The sensation was uncomfortable and a little painful. She tensed. After a moment, she heard several clicks, and the pressure inside her increased. She sucked in a breath and held it.

"You doing okay up there?"

Clary nodded, but when she remembered the doctor couldn't hear her way down there, she answered, "Yes."

After several more seconds, the doctor removed whatever she'd placed inside of Clary and stood. "You're going to feel my hands again." She didn't wait for Clary's confirmation before she was touching her.

It hurt. Not a lot, but enough to cause tears to sting Clary's eyes. The doctor pushed on Clary's lower belly, feeling around for . . . something. Clary didn't know. A few seconds later, Dr. Penhallow withdrew her hands completely.

She patted Clary's knee and said, "You're all set. You can sit up."

Clary flung herself up so quickly, she felt her head swim. As much as she knew the things the doctor had done were what was supposed to happen at these visits, she'd never felt so incredibly embarrassed and . . . violated . . . in her life. Not even considering what she'd done last night. It was a whole different thought process: sex and being felt, well, down, by a female doctor. So impersonal and just, _yuck_!

The doctor stripped off her gloves and washed her hands in the small sink situated under a mirror. As she dried, she turned toward Clary and smiled again. When she finished, she walked back over to her stool and sat, grabbing her clipboard.

"My findings concur with your suspicions." Her _findings_? "The hymen is no longer intact and there is a significant amount of swelling and bruising consistent with intercourse." She scribbled something onto the chart. "I see no evidence of forced penetration. Though, it does appear your partner was . . . quite a bit larger than you, which would account for the amount of damage."

Damage? What the hell was she talking about? Did that asshole break her?

The doctor glanced up expectantly, and Clary's face flared. How was she supposed to know if he was "larger"? She couldn't even remember his face let alone his . . . largeness! But the doctor looked like she wanted an answer, a confirmation. Clary gave her what she knew.

"He was, uh, well, I remember him being really tall . . .? But, I mean, I'm really short, so . . ."

Dr. Penhallow smiled and even chuckled a little. "Yes, well, things usually tend to be pretty proportionate, so it makes sense he'd be . . . tall."

Clary wanted to die.

"You're probably going to feel sore for a few days. That's normal. You may even bleed a little more. Most people don't, but it's possible. I'm only telling you so you don't worry if it happens. I would recommend you hold off on any more sex until your body heals, though."

"I don't think that's going to be an issue," Clary said, ready to be done and out of there.

"Okay then, we should probably discuss birth control. Have you thought about what you'd like to do for the future?"

Clary balked. "What do I need birth control for? It was just this one time."

Dr. Penhallow grinned. "It's a proven fact that once someone starts having sex, they usually continue. It's just a precaution for the future."

"Well, I can't take anything. I mean, I don't want to put that stuff in my body." It was a lie, but how "grown up" would the doctor think she was if she told her she didn't want to risk her parents finding anything? If her father knew . . . well, she wouldn't have to worry about ever having sex again because he'd likely break off the penis of any boy that got within ten feet of her.

"That's understandable. There are many women who prefer not to. But what are you going to do to protect yourself in the future?"

"Not have sex?" Clary mumbled, feeling very positive about that idea.

The doctor laughed. "Yes, that is definitely the best form of protection against a variety of diseases and pregnancy. But we both know sometimes even our best intentions aren't enough."

Clary bit her lip. "Well, I guess condoms—if I ever do . . . that . . . again."

"Good choice." The doctor stood and walked over to a cabinet situated near the back of the room. She opened the door and removed a brown paper lunch sack. "Here." She handed it to Clary.

Clary looked inside, her eyes growing wide when she realized the bag was chock full of condoms. She closed the bag quickly, feeling her face heat. Did the doctor really think she'd need _that_ many? Did anyone?

"If used correctly, condoms can be very effective against pregnancy and STD's. Do you know how to use them?"

Oh, _God_!

"I know where they go . . ."

"Well, that's a start. I can show you how to put them on if you like." The doctor reached into the cabinet again, her fingers closing around some sort of statue. Oh—not a statue. A giant, plastic model of a penis.

"Oh!" Clary held out her hand and gestured for the doctor to stop. "I'm pretty sure I get how it works. Really." She paused and drew in a breath. "But, considering how I wasn't, uh, completely 'there' at the time, is there a way to, you know, check if we used . . ." She gestured to the cabinet full of condoms.

The doctor closed the doors and came back over to stand beside Clary. "Sometimes we can tell during the examination, but most times not. I didn't find any semen present during your exam, but I assume you have showered and used the bathroom since the incident?"

Clary nodded.

"Then it's very likely anything left behind would be washed away. But don't worry, we're going to have the nurse come back in and draw some blood for STD testing. If anything is going on, we can get you treated."

"But what about . . . stuff . . . other than STD's?" She hoped the doctor knew what she was asking because she didn't want to say it.

And she did. "The chance for pregnancy is always there whenever you have sex, protected or not. According to your chart, the date of your last period was a couple of weeks ago. The average time for ovulation is around fourteen days, but that's _if_ you follow the average twenty-eight day cycle. You could ovulate early or late. That isn't something we can know yet."

"When will I know?"

This time the doctor did not smile. "You'll know when you get your period, or not."

Clary's breath caught. "But can't you tell now?" Her voice was small, very small.

Dr. Penhallow's expression softened. "No. There's no way I can tell right now. We just have to wait and see." She paused. "There is another option, though."

"There is?"

The doctor nodded.

.o.O.o.

Twenty minutes later, Clary exited the clinic with her ginormous bag of condoms, her arm sore from needle pricks, and Isabelle hot on her heels.

"Well?" Isabelle asked. "What did they say?"

"They said I'm a baboon. Jesus, Izzy, what do you think they said?"

"So, you did . . . you know, it?"

Clary stopped, leaned up against the side of Isabelle's car, closed her eyes, and took in a breath. "Yeah. Totally devirginized."

"Hell," Isabelle said quietly.

"Yeah."

"So . . . what now?"

"Now . . ." Clary opened her eyes and sighed. "Now we wait."

"Wait?"

"Yep. Wait."

"For?"

"For the blood test results and for my monthly visitor to decide whether or not she's going to show up on time." Her voice lowered to a whisper. "Or at all."

"Damn, Clary."

"Yeah."

"Didn't she offer you the morning after pill? I mean, they still have that, right?"

Clary fiddled with her fingers. "She did. But I didn't want it."

"What?" Isabelle's eyes grew wide. "How could you not want it? If you are . . . you know . . . it could solve everything."

"I know that. Izzy. I _know._I just . . . you don't know how badly I wanted to say yes when she offered to write me the prescription. I knew it would solve everything and I wouldn't have to worry about it for the next couple of weeks. But I just . . . couldn't." She glanced back down at her hands. She couldn't explain the feeling that had come over her when the doctor told her of this last option. There was a slight bit of relief, but an overwhelming sense of wrongness too. She just couldn't do something like that. No matter how much easier it seemed. "I couldn't." Tears welled in her eyes and she swiped them away.

Isabelle stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Clary, a noise escaping from her throat that sounded a lot like the ones Clary was making. "Damn it, Clary. You're so stupid. You know that?"

She nodded into Isabelle's shoulder. "I know."

Isabelle pulled back and looked Clary right in the eye. "So, a couple of weeks, huh?"

"Yeah, about."

"Okay," Isabelle's face took on a determined expression. "That gives us plenty of time."

"Plenty of time for what?"

"To find that devirginizing, door banging bastard and string him up by his balls, of course. What else?" Isabelle offered a falsely innocent smile and started to round the car. "You coming or what?"

Clary shook her head and grinned despite that fact that all she wanted to do was curl up and cry until the two weeks had passed and she was in the clear. "Yeah," she said instead. "I'm coming."

* * *

><p><em>I know some of you will think Clary should have just taken the pill, but she has her reasons for not wanting to. Let's not question her, okay?<em>

_Still no updating schedule. We're just flying by the seat of our pants here._

_Until next time!_

_XOXO ~ddpjclaf_

_P.S. Wow, um, okay. Since I have just received my first (of probably many) ticked off reviews about this story being 'just the usual pregnancy story'...let me just say: **I TOLD YOU THAT IN THE FIRST CHAPTER**. I thought I made that pretty obvious that that is EXACTLY what this story is about. The title is a bit ambiguous, 9 Consequences=9 months-I was trying to be clever. I really didn't think I needed to spell it out. I said it was a subject some people didn't like to read about, I all but said: this story is about teenage pregnancy. Maybe I should have said it just like that. So, anyway, there ya go. That's what this story is about. If you don't like that or don't want to read a pregnancy story, then don't read this. Bow out now. Don't leave nastiness behind, because now you've been told out right.  
><em>


	3. Happy Birthday to Me

******The character names of The Mortal Instruments are owned by Cassandra Clare. The original content, ideas, and intellectual property of this story are owned by ddpjclaf, 2011. Please do not copy, reproduce, or translate without express written permission.******

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Three: "Happy Birthday to Me"<strong>

_****PLEASE READ BEFORE CONTINUING****_

_Wow. The reviews for this story are all over the place, haha. I guess that comes with the territory of writing about a subject like this. Well, before we go on, there are some things we should clear up so there is no confusion:_

_1 Yes, Clary _**WILL**_ be pregnant in this story. This was stated clearly in the A/N's of ch's 1&2. This was not meant to be a surprise or any sort of twist. It just is. _

_2 Regardless of the subject matter, this is **still** a love story. That's what I write and why it's categorized under romance. BUT, this is a 15/16 year old girl getting pregnant the first time she had sex by a boy she doesn't even know. That's not supposed to be a good thing and it isn't going to be treated like one. I'm going to be as realistic as I can about that whole subject. But that doesn't mean there won't be any good moments. There will be._

_3 I realize this story is going to incite many different opinions and passions in accordance to everyone's personal morals and beliefs. And I think this is a good thing, but *please* remember that there is a real person behind this computer screen. I didn't start writing this because I thought it was different or amazing or was going to change the world, I started it because these characters wouldn't shut up, that's it._

_4 It occurs to me that the Jace in this story may seem OOC as well. He's based more off from the Jace we saw for a short time at the end of CoB when Jace was with Valentine. You may recognize that somewhat here, but it will be more evident later.  
><em>

_Now that that's out of the way, I really hope you enjoy this chapter. It's my favorite so far. :)_

_Thank you to LLWB for betaing this so quickly!_

_Chapter Songs:_

_**Easier to Lie – Aqualung_

_**Collide – Howie Day_

_Btw, finally got a playlist up! Link is on my profile._

* * *

><p>Three weeks had passed since that night.<p>

Three weeks, and Clary was no closer to putting a name or face to the boy who'd taken her virginity.

Tonight was the tournament game for the city championship between the Northwest Bobcats and the Southeast Knights. Clary's father could think of nothing else, speak of nothing else, except handing Michael Wayland his ass on a silver platter. There were signs and decorations up everywhere declaring which team each household or business was rooting for. Predictions were being made all across town, most going to Northwest, which pissed Clary's father off even more. But he really couldn't spin a convincing argument. Northwest had an advantage over every other team in the state. Their quarterback, Jace Wayland, was the best the state had seen in twenty years.

Clary didn't know him, had never seen him off the field or out of uniform, though she'd watched him play in every game against Southeast in the past four years. She had to admit, he was phenomenal. The Knights had a lot of work ahead of them if they wanted to best Wayland's arm. He would, no doubt, be awarded the MVP trophy for the fourth year in a row, even winning out over her own brother, Jonathan, two years prior when Wayland was only a sophomore. This was the biggest game of the year. Everyone who was anyone would be there, sporting their team's colors and waving banners over their heads.

But Clary didn't care about football or championships or MVP player awards tonight. She couldn't concentrate on any of that because all she could think about was the fact that she was eight days late.

She tried to reason with herself, that eight days wasn't that bad. She'd been late before, but before she never had cause to worry.

"You're probably just stressing yourself out," Isabelle had told her. "Relax and I bet it'll come."

But as the days passed, Clary felt none of the usual cramping, bloating, or fatigue, not a single headache or bout of dizziness. She didn't need a test to tell her, because deep down, she already knew. But she peed on the stick anyway, and now, twenty minutes before she was to leave for the biggest game of her dad's career, she paced in front of her tiny attached bathroom, wringing her hands in front of her, the tiny timer on her desk clicking away the longest three minutes of her life.

Isabelle sat on Clary's bed in her matching blue and gold cheerleading uniform, her face drawn. Clary knew Izzy didn't know what to say or how to comfort her. But Clary didn't want any of that anyway. The only thing she did want was for her gut to be wrong.

"This waiting sucks," Isabelle said.

Clary couldn't help but agree. "Yeah, but you know what _really_ sucks?"

"What? Besides you maybe being knocked up?"

Clary nodded. "Yes, and I don't even get the pleasure of remembering how I got that way."

Isabelle snorted and slapped her hand over her mouth. "Don't make me laugh, this isn't funny."

"I never said it was. I just think it would at least be nice to have some memory as to how I got myself into this situation—other than the vague recollection of a guy sticking his hands down my pants."

"Hey, bright side? At least you got that out of it. Most guys our age don't know what the hell they're doing down there. It's like our parts are some cosmic mystery or something. I'm tempted to draw a diagram or something for next time—except, well, after all this I'm considering becoming celibate."

"Nice, Iz—"

A loud buzz sounded and Clary startled. She took in a shaking breath and glanced at Isabelle. Izzy nodded and Clary turned to enter the bathroom. The tiny stick rested on the sink, its blue cap jutting just a little bit over the side. Slowly Clary moved across the room, her eyes fixating on the cap and refusing to move. When she reached the edge of the sink, she finally allowed her eyes a glance. And there it was, just as she knew it would be.

A giant blue plus sign right in the results window.

She reached out a trembling hand and picked it up, holding it between two fingers, as if it might bite her if she touched it with any more. The result didn't change no matter how far or close she held it to herself. It was still the largest plus sign, in the most vibrant blue, she'd ever seen. It didn't matter that she'd already sort of known, having it confirmed was so much worse than she'd imagined. Her head spun and her stomach squeezed. Clary lowered the test back to the sink and abruptly fell to her knees. She couldn't think, couldn't breathe. Isabelle was at her side in seconds.

"Oh, God. Oh, _God_," Izzy said. "Are you sure? Maybe it's wrong. We should get another. Take another." Her hands flailed in front of her, like she didn't quite know what to do with them or like she was magically going to produce another pregnancy test out of thin air.

Clary closed her hands over Izzy's, bringing them to rest on her thighs. "No. I'm sure."

"But you _can__'__t_ be Clary. It was just once. Once! Who gets pregnant their first time? I mean . . . you just can't be!"

Clary found it odd that Isabelle was the one freaking out, when Clary was the one whose life had just ended. She stood slowly, her mind and body numb, and picked up the positive test, carrying it back into her room. Stopping in front of her desk, she placed the test down next to the timer and on top of her calendar. A bright red circle surrounded today's date and written in the square were the words: _Happy __Birthday __to __Me!_

Clary stared at the date for what seemed like a long time before repeating in a monotone voice, "Happy birthday to me," and shoving the test, calendar, and timer off her desk and into the trash can in one swift movement.

.o.O.o.

Energy was high that night in the locker room. It usually was rowdy and loud on game nights, but tonight it had a current going through it like Jace had never felt before. This was the game everyone in town had been waiting for. It was the one he'd been waiting for.

In the stands tonight would be three college scouts, all of whom were there for him. He knew, even without the win tonight, he would have at least two, most likely all three, offers before the game was even over. He knew he was good. Outstanding even. There was no need to question it. Although, he had been playing a bit more distracted these last few weeks. For some reason, he couldn't get the night of the party out of his mind. It didn't sit well with him leaving things as they were. He knew he should, that it really didn't matter in the long run. People had one night stands all the time, and it really wasn't a big deal. But it bothered him that he didn't even know her name, couldn't recall her face. He didn't know why it bugged him so much; it never had in the past. In fact, there were some girls he wished he _could_ forget. But not this time. Not this girl.

Sebastian had been no help, claiming he hadn't really paid attention to the girl's face. All he knew was that she seemed 'super tiny' and had red hair. Thank you very much, Captain Obvious. As previously stated, no help at all.

Jace hadn't tried to get any information outside of Sebastian. He couldn't risk anything getting back to his father. If he thought Jace was hooking up with some girl, there would be hell to pay at home and at practice. Jace didn't need that right now, so he tried the best he could to keep his head out of his thoughts and in the game. After the season, if he still couldn't get it out of his mind, he could look for her then.

"Wayland!" Sebastian plopped down on the bench beside Jace, still only dressed in shorts and a tee-shirt. "You ready for this?"

Jace pulled his shoulder pads over his head and worked on strapping them on. "Are you? You're not even dressed yet." He stretched one of the elastic straps from the back under his arm and attached it to the front chest portion of his pads, then repeated with the other side.

"Don't you worry about me, Sunshine, just make sure you get that ball where it needs to go."

Jace shoved Sebastian, causing him to almost fall off the bench. "I told you not to call me that anymore."

"You know, it hurts me that you don't like the nickname I slaved and slaved over."

"You didn't come up with Sunshine, jackass. So knock it off."

"I can't help it. With that abundance of gold circling your head, I just can't stop my mouth from calling out Suuuuuuuunshiiiiiiiine," Sebastian sang the last word.

Jace laughed and shoved him again. This time Sebastian toppled over the edge and lay sprawled across the floor.

Raphael Santiago peeked around the corner of the lockers and asked, "Are we calling him Sunshine again?"

"NO!" Jace said at the same time Sebastian shouted, "YES!"

But it was no use. A chorus of "Sunshines" chanted throughout the locker room in the same sing-songy voice Sebastian used, which Jace was pretty sure he'd stolen from some movie.

Jace leaned over Sebastian and said, "You're an ass," before grabbing his jersey and helmet and making his way toward the doors.

"Awww, come on, Sunshine! Don't be like that!" Sebastian called out after him, laughter shaking his voice.

Jace walked away and held his hand up over his head, flipping Sebastian the bird without looking back. His retreat from the locker room was followed by more laughter, more singing of his supposed nickname, and catcalls. For as much as his teammates seemed to want to ride him tonight, none of them followed. They knew Jace needed these few minutes to center himself, to get himself ready for what was to come. It was his ritual. They thought he needed it for concentration on the field, but that wasn't it at all. It was mostly to avoid his father.

Being the son of the coach lent to some pretty shitty playing conditions. Jace had received ribs his whole playing career about being coach's pet, but what none of them realized was, Jace was probably his father's least favorite player.

There was no one his father was harder on. No one he pushed the way he pushed Jace. Football was everything to Michael Wayland. Nothing and no one came before it. Not his mother when she still was alive, not his job, and certainly not Jace. He was just a means to an end, a way to achieve the dream his father's injured knee never let him reach. This was his way in, his way to play in college and to maybe go pro. This was everything.

Out in the hall, a chilly breeze wafted down the corridor from the open double doors at the end. The fresh scent of approaching winter clung to the gust. Jace's father liked to leave them open to give him the feeling of running out an actual tunnel. Yeah, it was pathetic, but Jace could see why he did it. Exiting a tunnel onto the field with fans chanting their name was the dream for every serious football player. They all wanted it, craved it. And Jace was determined to get it. If he could just keep on this track, keep his nose out of trouble, he'd be right there ready to take it all.

The moment Jace exited the building, he wanted to turn right back around. Standing against the side of the building, in the nook he usually used, stood Kaelie Farrow, his on again, off again ex-girlfriend. She grinned and wiggled her fingers hello when she saw him. Jace took a breath and moved toward her.

"What are you doing here, Kaelie? You know this is where I come to unwind before the game."

She moved out of the shadows, her short skirt showing off a generous amount of thigh. She'd always been a gorgeous girl: long blonde hair, blue eyes, a body with just the right amount of curves in just the right size. But Jace was tired of her, tired of the shit he had to put up to be with her.

"I thought maybe you could use some help with that." She bit her lip.

Jace dropped his helmet to the ground and pulled his jersey over his head, straightening it across his pads. "Not during the season. You know that."

This was where Jace had always had a problem with their relationship. Kaelie just couldn't grasp the fact that when it was time for football, he couldn't have any distractions—including her. She said it made her feel like football was more important to him than her, and he'd told her in no uncertain terms that it was. She just refused to listen.

She took another step toward him and walked her fingers up his arm. "That's not what I heard."

"What are you talking about?" Jace asked, becoming frustrated with her taking up his alone time. He only had precious moments before he needed to be back in the locker room for Coach's pep talk.

"Oh, don't pretend like you don't know." Kaelie ran her hand down his side and started to walk around him, her hand following until it rested right on his ass and she stood on his other side. Rising up on tip-toes, she touched her lips to his ear. "Did you really think I wouldn't hear about your little sex-ban break a few weeks ago?"

Jace stiffened at her words.

"I'm only disappointed you didn't call me. You know I would have taken care of you." She nipped at his ear. "Better than that Southeast cheerleader skank you had all over you."

Jace pushed her away. Wait. What did she just say? "What?"

"Come on, Jace." She grinned. "Stop acting like you don't know what I'm talking about. Seb's party? You and the trashy red-head in the stripper boots?"

Jace's brows rose and his heart beat faster. "How do you—? You weren't even at that party."

"My cousin was there." Kaelie moved in closer again, pressing her body against his and hooking her fingers around his hip bones to pull him into her. "It's okay, baby, I'll forgive you if you ask nicely."

Jace couldn't think. A Southeast cheerleader? He didn't normally go for the cheerleader type, but . . . If she was a Southeast cheerleader, that would mean she'd be there tonight. He glanced toward the field, where he could hear the sounds of spectators filling the stands. The lights shone bright over the field, and to one side he saw them: their uniforms consisting of blue short skirts and tight half-shirts. Was she over there? His mystery girl?

"Jace," Kaelie's voice broke him out of his thoughts. "Are you listening to me?"

Jace shook off her hold and bent to retrieve his helmet. "I've got to go." He turned to walk back to the locker room, his head even more jumbled now than it had been, when Kaelie grabbed his arm.

"But—"

He pulled his arm out of her grasp. "No, Kaelie. I don't know what you think you heard, but there's been no lift of the ban. I—I have to go."

Kaelie called his name again, but he ignored her. He entered the building and thrust his hand into his hair. If what Kaelie said was true, then the girl would be on the sideline tonight, watching him. Would she say anything? Had she already? Would he recognize her when he saw her?

There were too many questions, too many variables. That same part of him that had been telling him this whole thing was no big deal, was barely a whisper anymore. The part that screamed "you're in deep shit now, asshole" took over everything else.

He could just hear the chatter now: Southeast cheerleader screws Northwest quarterback—literally!

Shit.

He didn't need this now. Not with the way his father had been all over him, more so than usual, and especially not when he had college scouts watching him tonight. He would never hear the end of it if his father found out he'd jumped one of the enemies. He needed to find that girl. Needed to figure out what she knew and what kind of gossip she'd already spread. And most of all, he needed to make sure that, for at least the rest of the season, she kept her damn mouth shut.

.o.O.o.

"Clary! God, pay attention!" Maia, the head cheerleader, growled. "We're going to drop you on your ass in front of Northwest's entire crowd if we don't perfect this toss."

Clary forced herself to focus on Maia. Like all the rest of the squad, Maia's dark brown hair was pulled back into a high ponytail with blue and gold ribbons tied around the band, and it bobbed back and forth as she talked.

"Sorry," Clary said, unable to pull herself completely out of her head. Her eyes kept dipping to her stomach, roving over the flat surface, her thoughts consumed by the fact that there was something in there. Something growing and living that someone she didn't know put there.

Ugh.

She felt sick.

"What's up with you tonight?" Maia asked. "You've been spaced out since you got here."

Clary opened her mouth to speak, but Isabelle answered for her. "Lay off, Maia. It's her birthday."

"So, what? You hitting the bottle early or something?" Maia scowled. "I don't care if it's her birthday. I don't want to look like complete morons in front of Northwest. You know we have to face them again in a few weeks at semi-finals."

Isabelle's eyes narrowed into slits so small they almost looked closed. That look meant nothing good, so Clary interjected before things could get ugly.

"I'm sorry," she repeated. "I'm fine. Let's go."

Isabelle gave her a concerned look, but Clary shook her head. She couldn't act any differently around anyone. No one could know. No one could even suspect anything was wrong. Not yet.

Clary moved up behind two of her teammates and placed her hands on their shoulders. They grasped each other's wrists, forming a small, square platform with their fists. Another girl stepped in front and one moved behind Clary, placing her hands at Clary's waist. The girl in the back counted off. When she hit two, the three girls in front squatted down, and on three, Clary jumped straight up. Her feet hit the platform and a second later she was thrust into the air, wind whipping around her as she rose and rose, flying high above the other girls. When she felt herself hit her peak height, she arched her back and kicked her feet into the air, doing an upside-down scissor split before flipping over completely.

It felt like minutes instead of seconds that she was in the air. Up there, she felt like herself. Like everything in her world was right again. There was no ridiculous feud turning her father into a monstrous ass, no drunken sex with a stranger against a bathroom door, no human being trying to grow in her womb. There was just her and just the sky.

And then, she started to descend, and with her went that feeling of rightness.

The girls below caught her, one hooking her arms under Clary's, and two cradling her butt and legs. They set her down carefully, and Maia peered at her with scrutiny.

"I suppose that'll do," she said. "Well, come on, it's time to form up."

Clary gathered her poms from the ground and jogged after the rest of her squad to the entrance of the locker room. In just a few moments, her team would burst through those doors, run through the tunnel the cheerleaders created, and onto the field. Clary always loved the adrenaline it gave her. How the lights shone down and made the field feel like its own special little universe. She loved the smell of the concession stand, the sound of the crowd shouting and cheering, the crack of the helmets and pads as the players collided on the field. Maybe if she could just concentrate on that, just for tonight, she could forget about everything else. Could forget that her life was about to change. Could forget all the things she didn't, and would maybe never, know.

The door to the locker room opened with a slam, and boys in blue pants and gold jerseys came rushing out. Clary jumped and cheered with the rest of her squad, poms shaking and twisting in the air. The boys hooted and hollered, pumped up and ready to give their all on the field. Last out the door were her father and his assistant coaches. His face was drawn and determined. He didn't spare her a glance as he passed by.

Her squad chased after the boys, facing the crowd and pumping them up with cheers and flips. Clary trailed behind, but with much less enthusiasm. Isabelle walked with her.

"You okay?" she asked.

Clary shrugged. "I don't know. I'm just . . . trying to forget about it for now."

Isabelle tucked her arm around Clary's shoulder and pulled her into her side just as the other locker room doors slammed open. The band on the opposite side of the field started up with Northwest's school song and cheers erupted from the stands. The sound of feet pounded over the ground, and Clary turned just in time to see the Northwest Bobcat's explode through their cheerleader made tunnel, led by their star quarterback, number seven. Just the way he ran was confident, so sure he could lead his team to victory.

Clary groaned internally, thinking he was probably correct in thinking that and also dreading the ride home if her team did, in fact, lose. Fantastic. A wonderful ending to such a wonderful day. God, could it get any worse?

.o.O.o.

Jace's back hit the ground with a thud, and all the air in his lungs whooshed out. Two guys lay on top of him, lingering almost as if they were afraid to let him up. He heard his father yelling at him from the sidelines to "get his head out of his ass and throw the damn ball." Slowly, his chest lightened as the weight lifted from his body. Sebastian leaned over him, his hand out to offer him help up. Jace took it and dropped the ball where he'd fallen.

Six yards lost.

Damn it.

"Sorry, man," Sebastian said. "I couldn't hold 'em. It's like these guys injected a bunch of adrenaline before coming on the field tonight. They're insane."

Jace was irritated and his shoulder hurt from the numerous hits he'd received that night. "Don't give me your bullshit excuses, Verlac, just hold the damn line! If I go down once more, I'm going to hand you your ass when we get back to the sideline."

Sebastian's face contorted in anger, but he didn't say a word. He just nodded and ran up to take his position on the line. Jace rolled his shoulder, trying to work out the stiffness and made the mistake of glancing at the sideline. His father's eyes bore into him, burning straight through flesh and bone to his heart. Jace looked away immediately. It wasn't that they were losing, they were actually ahead 14-6, but Jace just wasn't on his game tonight. He'd already thrown one interception and had been sacked twice in the first half. His eyes kept drifting to the other sideline, wondering if he might spot her, but the cheerleaders were too far away and it looked as if they had a couple red-headed girls.

Jace shook the thoughts from his head and lined up behind the center. He studied the formation of the defense, noticing the way they played heavily to the left, expecting him to throw to Santiago. Quickly, he searched his mind for a different play and called out his cadence, the new play mixed with the normal nonsensical color and number combos. The ball snapped into Jace's hands and he backed up a few steps. His eyes roved over the field, those precious seconds feeling like hours as he searched.

Damn it! The receiver wasn't there. Southeast's defense had everyone covered. Jace was just about to tuck the ball in and run it himself, when someone slammed into his side. Pain spread across his ribs and he fell to the ground once more. He groaned as the ref blew his whistle.

Forth down, over.

Jace rose from the ground, smacking away the hands of his teammates as they tried to help him up. He slumped his shoulders and started toward the sideline, afraid to look up and see the fury in his dad's eyes.

Unfortunately, he didn't need to look in order to reap the consequences. The moment he stepped over the line, he felt his head jerk to the side.

"What in the hell was that?" his father seethed, his fingers hooked through Jace's face mask. "You call that football? That was one of the most disgusting displays I've ever seen!"

Jace tried to pull his helmet out of his father's grasp. "The offensive line—"

His father tightened his grip and pulled Jace's head forward until his face mask touched his father's chin. "Don't you try to pass blame. This is your team. You're their leader. How do you expect them to get behind you when you're playing like shit? You look like you have no idea what you're doing out there! Your job is to throw, not stand around looking like a little lost puppy." He shoved Jace's face to the side and smacked the back of his helmet, hard. "Get your ass on the bench and pray I don't send Mitchell in for you next time."

Jace pushed his way through the players on the sideline, ripped off the chin strap, and tore the helmet from his head, throwing it to the ground next to the bench. He sat and immediately dropped his head to his hands. His father was right, he was playing like shit. And he had no excuse. His mind was jumbled and he couldn't concentrate on what was happening around him. He needed to get a grip. If he didn't, he could potentially lose this game. Not to mention, he was not putting on a very good show for the scouts in the stands.

"Wayland!" his father shouted.

Jace looked up, surprised to see they had possession of the ball once again.

"Time to prove you actually know how to play." He gestured to the field. "Don't embarrass me this time."

Jace grabbed his helmet and jumped off from the bench, avoiding his father's stare and following his team onto the field. They huddled up in the middle, and Jace called the play.

"Wait," Sebastian said. "Coach called a pass play."

"I know exactly what he called." And Jace knew why. The scouts. His father wanted to show off Jace's arm, but Morgenstern was not going to let him throw, and Jace knew it. Their defense had been crowding his receivers all night long, and Jace was pretty sure they weren't about to stop. "But these guys are all over Jenkins and Ford. If I keep trying to throw, they're going to take me down every time."

"So you wanna go with a running play?"

"We're gonna fake the hand off to Smith, but we're going with quarterback keeper."

Sebastian raised a brow. "You're going to run it? But we need a full ten."

Jace nodded, knowing full well the keeper play was only meant for gaining a few yards at a time, but he wasn't planning to stop. "Morgenstern's not stupid. Everyone knows the scouts are here tonight, and he knows they want to see the pass. That's why he's shutting me down at every turn. If we fake the hand off to Smith and I run, he's not going to be expecting that. I can get us the first down."

"But we used quarterback keeper against him last time."

Jace shook his head. "But not with the fake. Trust me. It's going to work."

"This is stupid," Sebastian grumbled.

"Yeah, well, what I say goes, and I say we're running the play," Jace said. "Now, are we clear?"

Mumbled affirmatives drifted throughout the huddle. Jace met Sebastian's eyes, and even though they were worried, he gave one brief nod.

"Okay, let's get it done. Bobcats on three. One, two, three."

"Bobcats!" the team said in unison.

The center situated himself behind the line, bent, and wrapped his fingers around the ball. Jace lined up behind him and started his cadence. After the snap, the ball touched his hands and he turned immediately, faking the hand off to Smith. The defense took the bait and surged to the left to cover Smith's run. Jace paused for a few seconds, keeping with the rouse, then took off to the right, slipping through the hole forged by his line. It didn't take long for the defense to see what had happened and they were after him, diving at his feet and swiping at his waist. He managed to slip through their fingers and jump over a few fallen bodies before continuing his run up the sideline. Just as he reached the first down mark, he felt one of the defensive players crash into his side, knocking him out of bounds and into the opposing team's bench. He managed to stay up, but was grabbed by the pads and shoved back several times by a few of Southeast's players. They taunted and slapped at him as they jerked him around, his feet barely able to keep him upright, until his back hit a wall.

No. Not a wall.

People. Cheerleaders.

Cheerleaders that toppled like bowling pins under his weight. Screams went up all around him, and he stumbled back, almost tripping over one of the girls under his feet, when another scream sounded above him. Jace looked up just in time to see a tiny girl falling from the sky. He didn't have time to think before his hands came up and the girl fell on top of him, knocking them both to the ground.

.o.O.o.

Clary screamed all the way down. It wasn't like she'd never been dropped before, but coming down from a fully extended cupie with no one to catch you was not what she'd call fun. Her eyes closed automatically and her hands extended in front of her. Too soon she felt them connect with something hard, but that gave and fell the rest of the way with her. Arms wrapped around her back and her face met meshy feeling fabric. She still felt the jolt of hitting the ground, but whoever caught her took the brunt of the fall.

She heard a low groan, and recognized it as male immediately. Her eyes popped open. The first thing she saw was a football lying on the ground beside her, and the rise of a shoulder pad clad arm bearing the colors of white, maroon and gold.

"Jesus," the person below her said. "I've never been so happy to be wearing a cup in my life." His voice was a strained breath.

But it was familiar.

A shiver worked its way down Clary's spine. She slowly raised herself, her eyes first settling on the large number seven adorning the front of his jersey then rising to his face. His helmet obscured most of his features, but she could still make out his mouth and nose and the black smudges painted across his cheekbones. Something stirred in her mind. His eyes were closed.

"You all right?" he asked, and Clary's breath caught.

A small crease formed between his brows and he opened his eyes. Clary couldn't look away.

Gold.

His eyes were gold. She'd never seen eyes that color before—except she had. Once.

As she stared at the boy lying on the ground beneath her, the fog lifted from her mind and gold stared back at her from inside her memory. Gold, with a sexy smirk and words and breath and touches that lit her on fire. She tried to push off from him, but his fingers tightened on her back. He was staring at her like she was staring at him, as if someone had reminded him of something he'd forgotten too.

His eyes widened.

Clary didn't have a chance to say anything. A hand wrapped around her arm and yanked her up and off from him.

"God, Clary! Are you all right?" Isabelle asked, her hands on Clary's shoulders and face, trying to check her out, to make sure she hadn't been hurt. But Clary couldn't move her eyes from his.

"I—I'm okay," she answered, her voice shaking.

Isabelle hugged Clary then turned to the boy on the ground. "You asshole! You could have killed her!"

The boy started to rise from the ground, when Clary felt another presence at her back. "Clarissa, are you hurt?" her father asked.

She turned. "No, I'm okay. He—he cushioned the fall."

When she turned back around, the boy was unfastening his chin strap and pulling the helmet from his head. His hair was wet and matted to his skull, but she could tell it was light colored. Her heart pounded harder and harder in her chest, as recognition came together like pieces of a puzzle in her mind. Those eyes. That hair. Her gaze fell to his hands. Long, slender. She could almost feel them tracing her skin.

It was him. Her mystery boy.

And he was standing in front of her, looking at her like he'd lost and found her too.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I lost my footing when they pushed me—"

"Yes, I'm sure that's _exactly_ what it was, Wayland," Clary's father snapped.

Wayland? Wayland! Clary's gaze fell to the number on his jersey again. Seven. Northwest's quarterback, number seven, Jace _Wayland._Oh, God, this boy was Jace Wayland. She'd screwed _Jace__ Wayland!_

"What's going on here?" Another voice called from behind Clary.

The boy—Jace—groaned. A man stepped up beside them and eyed them all with scrutiny.

"So, this is how you play now? Huh, Wayland?" Clary's father glared at the man. "It isn't enough to play dirty on the field, now you're going to involve our girls too? He just about killed my daughter!"

Jace's eyes flashed to Clary's and grew even bigger.

"That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard, Morgenstern! My son was playing football, which is what your team _should_ be doing!" Michael Wayland said.

The two men continued throwing insults and jabs at one another, but Jace and Clary just stood there, looking at each other in disbelief. Clary was surprised by the shock on his face, like he didn't remember either. Didn't he? He opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something, but was interrupted by his father.

"Come on, Jace, we have a game to win."

When Jace didn't move, the man grabbed him by the arm and tugged him forward. He stumbled a little as his eyes weren't on where he was going. They were on her instead. Finally, when his father yanked his arm again, Jace tore his gaze away and stepped onto the field.

Clary's chest hurt. Isabelle was fussing with her uniform and hair, saying something about it being "a total disaster", but Clary couldn't pay her any mind. After a few minutes, she felt a pull on her hand.

"Clary," Isabelle said softly. "Are you sure you're okay? I mean, what about the . . ." She gestured discreetly to Clary's belly.

Clary closed her eyes and shook her head. She felt sick, dizzy, disoriented.

"Come on, you should sit—"

"No. That's not . . ." Clary opened her eyes and met Isabelle's. "Izzy . . ." Her voice sounded small and squeaky, like she was about to cry.

"What?" Isabelle's brows drew together. "What's wrong?"

"He . . ." Clary pointed in the direction Jace walked. She couldn't see him anymore, as he was now across the field from her. "He . . ."

"I know. The asswipe almost killed you!"

"No, Iz." She swallowed and met Isabelle's stare once more. "He's the one."

"The one?" Isabelle frowned.

Clary glanced back out at the field. "He's the one," she repeated. "From the party . . . He's the one."

* * *

><p><em>Edited to add: "Sunshine" was adopted from the movie REMEMBER THE TITANS. Excellent football movie, if you've never seen it.<em>


	4. Can We Talk?

****The character names of The Mortal Instruments are owned by Cassandra Clare. The original content, ideas and intellectual property of this story are owned by ddpjclaf, 2011. Please do not copy, reproduce, or translate without express written permission.****

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Four: "Can we talk?"<strong>

_**Warning: Slight bit of sexiness for those who require warning._

_A/N at the end. _

_Chapter Songs:_

_**Tyrant – OneRepublic_

_**Only Girl – Rihanna_

_**For the First Time – The Script_

_Link to playlist on profile.  
><em>

* * *

><p>The atmosphere in the locker room after the game was the complete opposite of what it was beforehand. Players were arranged in a semi-circle, some standing against the lockers near the back of the room, others sitting on the benches. It still smelled like sweat and dirt, but no one spoke. No one smiled. It wasn't the attitude they normally had after a win, but apparently, this win was not one they were supposed to be proud of.<p>

Jace sat at the front of the pack. The leader. The failure. He watched Coach pace back and forth in front of them, his hand on his chin and eyes to the ground. Jace knew better than anyone the things going through his father's mind. Winning by a single field goal was not enough for Michael Wayland, not when it was in a game against Valentine Morgenstern. He'd wanted to slaughter him, to show him just how much better he was, to rub the talents of his son and team in the man's face. But that wasn't what happened. Although the team did good enough to finally beat the Knights, there was no such thing as "good enough" in this case. There was only "best."

Sweat dripped from Jace's hair to his brow, following the slope of his nose until falling to the ground. He wanted to wipe his face in the worst way. The perspiration was starting to sting his skin, especially where he'd cut himself shaving that morning. But he knew any movement would draw his father's attention straight to him, and he preferred to keep that moment until they were out of earshot of his teammates.

Finally, his father stopped in the center of the room and drew in a breath. Jace dropped his gaze to his clasped hands. From the corner of his eye, he could see the glint of gold from the MVP trophy at his side. Hell. He should have put it in his locker, hidden it in his bag, something. Anything but have it out there as a reminder of what he'd been awarded when he didn't deserve it.

"What is it I ask for every time you step out onto that field?" Coach Wayland began. "Is it mediocrity? Is it to run around and have fun, doing whatever the hell you want?"

The room was silent, no one wanting to be the one to speak. The click of cleats against the tiled floor sounded every once and awhile, but no one dared to make an intentional noise. This was how it always was when Coach didn't get his way, when the team didn't play up to his "standards."

"No, I ask for obedience. I ask for perfection. For one-hundred and twenty percent every minute, every _second_ your feet are on that field. Anything less and it's not worth the time or energy to be out there. I don't believe I have words to express how pathetic that was," he continued. "Just winning isn't enough. This was our chance to show what we're made of. But that . . . that was nothing more than luck. You were lucky. Plain and simple. There was no skill, no real display of the talents I know you possess. You were just out there, going through the motions. Some of you more than others."

Jace felt his father's gaze burn into the top of his head. And the worst part was, he was right. All night he'd been off, but after he'd seen the girl—Clary—touched her, he could think of nothing else. With just one peek at those wide green eyes, it was like a switch had been flipped and fragments of forgotten touches and sensations flooded his mind. His fingers remembered her skin, his lips knew her mouth, his body recognized the curve of hers, even though his brain couldn't put everything together into a coherent memory. It was the strangest sensation, staring into the eyes of a girl he didn't know, yet knew all at the same time.

His father continued on with his lecture, but Jace drowned the words out. He would hear them all again, probably with a bit more bite to it as usual. Fifteen minutes later, he felt a tap on his shoulder. Sebastian stood over him, his brow creased in concern.

"You coming?"

Jace knew he was talking about the victory party down at the river. It was a tradition for most game nights. Every once and awhile if someone's parents were away—like Sebastian's were that night a few weeks ago—they'd have the party at a house instead. At the river they had to be more careful with the alcohol and hooking up, but within the privacy of four walls, anything went, as Jace found out.

He let out a breath and stood, pulling his jersey and shoulder pads off, stuffing them into his locker along with the MVP trophy. "I don't know. Not sure I'm in the mood." Jace stripped down to his boxers and grabbed his towel and body wash from the top cubby.

"Or maybe you are in the mood, Sunshine, and that's the problem. You're so damn tense all the time. Maybe you need a good suck or fu—"

Jace slammed the locker door shut. "Don't start with that shit, Seb." He started toward the showers.

"Why not?" Sebastian trailed behind him. "I just don't get it, man. All these chicks are throwing themselves at you all the time and you just push them aside, like you don't even want it. You've gotta be sporting the worst case of blue balls in history—and the season's barely half over. Other than the dry hump setback a few weeks ago, I'm beginning to think you must be running with permanent wood. God, that's gotta be uncomfortable."

Obviously, Jace hadn't told Sebastian that the "dry hump" was not just a hump and certainly wasn't dry. It aggravated him that Sebastian wouldn't get off his ass about getting some, but regardless, he couldn't help but laugh. "You're a moron. Honestly, worry about your own dick. Your concern with mine is starting to scare me."

Sebastian shoved Jace into the wall. "You're an asshole. Fine. I'm through trying to help you see reason. But I know better than anyone how unsatisfying it gets when all you've got is a bottle of KY and a hand."

"Jesus, I do not want to hear this shit."

Jace turned the corner and entered the shower room. Luckily, in their school, the showers in the locker room were divided into cubicles, separated by half walls. It wasn't as private as a totally closed off shower with an actual door or curtain would be, but he wasn't complaining. Most just consisted of one big room with shower heads lined up on the wall. Not that Jace cared about showering in front of other people. He had nothing to be ashamed of, and guys just didn't look at other guys. It was eyes front all the time. That was guy code and everyone knew it. Even still, a little privacy went a long way.

Steam climbed the walls and filled the air with white mist. The sound of pounding water and laughter echoed in the small space. Sebastian followed Jace to the row of showers along the back wall. He slipped into his cubicle and Jace stepped into the one next to it.

"I just don't get it, dude," Sebastian called over the spray. "It's not natural, you know? You're supposed to be out chasing chicks and shit. That's what men do."

Jace didn't expect Sebastian to understand. Hell, sometimes he didn't understand himself. But he couldn't ignore the fact that the sharp focus on football is what made him as good as he was. When he lost that, as he had in today's game, his playing suffered. It wasn't a coincidence, it just was.

A lot of people would look at the relationship between him and his father and say Jace was just doing what his father wanted. But it was what _he_ wanted too. He wanted the rush and glory and praise. He liked seeing his name in the papers, his number painted on signs that waved in the crowd. Out there on that field, he was a god. He wanted that feeling forever. And the only way he could get it was with his father's help.

Jace took his time in the shower, letting the hot water pour over him and wash his disappointment away. This game definitely hadn't turned out as planned, and he deserved whatever his father had to dish out. Once the shower room was almost empty, Jace turned off the water, dried quickly, and wrapped the towel around his waist, grabbing his dirty boxers and body wash on the way out. He dressed slowly, waiting for the majority of his teammates to exit the room before making his way back to his father's office.

Coach Wayland sat at a large metal desk, his eyes fixed on the game stats in front of him. He ran a hand through his dark hair, the same gesture Jace used often.

Jace cleared his throat, and his father looked up. Immediately, his eyes darkened, and he held out his hand. Jace bit back a sigh and reached into his bag, withdrawing the MVP trophy that was awarded to him after the game and handed it to his father.

Michael Wayland eyed the prize, his expression never changing. Jace wondered if he'd yell, or if it would be the silent treatment this time. He actually preferred the yelling, at least that way it was over and done with. Instead, his father traced his finger over the plaque containing the year and Jace's name on the base.

He didn't look up when he said, "Do you think you deserve this?"

Jace swallowed hard, not knowing how to respond. He kind of thought he did. He'd played hard, practiced hard, and when he was out on the field, he was the best. Wasn't that what his father wanted? For him to be the best?

Finally, his father looked up, and the hardness in his eyes was enough to let Jace know the answer he expected.

He pushed down the disappointment crawling up his throat. "No, sir."

"No." His father nodded in agreement, then paused. "Do you have anything to say for yourself? Any more excuses or blame passing you'd like to do now?"

"No, sir." Jace felt anger stir inside him, but it was no use. It never helped to speak up. Never made any difference, except to piss his father off more. So he pushed it back down, buried it underneath all the rest of the regret inside him.

"I didn't think so." His father drew his finger up over the base to the metal award on top. It almost looked to Jace like his father was admiring it, until he wrapped his hand around the little cup and twisted and bent until Jace heard a crack. His father held the broken prize out to him.

Jace took it back, the top portion hanging over the side and touching the back of his hand. Anger and confusion flooded over him, but really, why was he surprised?

"Take that trash and get out of my sight," his father said. "I don't want to see you until tomorrow morning; oh-six-hundred on the field, where you'd better be ready to show me you know how to follow instructions."

Jace drew in a breath and exited into the hall. There were no players left in the locker room, so no one saw him toss the twisted metal of his award in the trash before leaving. He forced himself not to think about it and to not dwell on the hell he was going to endure in the morning. Saturday morning workouts were common place during the season, leveling off to every other Saturday in the off-season. They were a day of intensive cardiac and leg-weight training. But with his instructions to meet him on the field, Jace knew what his father had in store. Throwing drills.

Jace sighed and rolled his sore shoulder as he pushed through the doors to the outside. His father knew as well as Jace did that his arm and shoulder needed a rest. But, apparently, he found Jace's lack of passing tonight a sign that he needed more work. It didn't matter that the Knight's defense was all over the place, cutting down almost every pass attempt Jace made. It just didn't matter. Jace was supposed to be better than that. Better than everyone.

The wind had picked up and blew chilly against Jace's wet hair. He stopped and pulled a black ball cap from his bag and pushed it on his head. The parking lot was relatively empty, only a few cars remained. Among them were his father's, his, and Sebastian's. Jace wondered why Seb was still there. He frowned and started to walk over, but stopped when he heard a high pitched laugh coming from the vicinity of Sebastian's vehicle. Jace grinned and shook his head. It was just like Sebastian to start the celebration before he even left the school.

Trying not to interrupt, Jace started toward the other side of the lot where his car was parked.

"Hey, Sunshine!" He heard Sebastian call.

Rolling his eyes, he turned. "You really want me to beat your ass, don't you?"

Sebastian pointed at him from his spot leaning up against his car door. "I'm gonna wear you down one of these days." He grinned, and the girl next to him stiffened.

"Doubtful," Jace said, and took a few steps backward. He really just wanted to get out of there. His father would be coming out soon, and he didn't want to be anywhere around when he did.

"Any chance you changed your mind and want to come? I've got plenty of room if you want to throw back a few." Sebastian patted the hood of his car.

Jace was about to answer with a firm "No" when Sebastian's friend made a soft choking sound. Involuntarily, Jace's eyes flitted to the girl, and it was then he really took her in. She stood only a few inches shorter than Sebastian and had long black hair and piercing dark eyes. She wore a black coat that reached her knees. Jace furrowed his brow and studied her for a moment. He recognized her, but for some reason he couldn't recall from where.

"Hey, don't I know you?" he asked.

The girl narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest. The amount of loathing in her stare stunned Jace. "No."

But when she moved, the slit of her coat opened and Jace caught sight of a blue and gold uniform. Southeast's colors. Then it hit him. He remembered where he'd seen her before. He snapped his fingers. "No. I remember now. On the sideline tonight."

"Oh, you mean when you ran down half my squad and almost killed my best friend?"

Shit. So this was Mystery Girl's best friend.

"'Almost' being the operative word. Everyone was fine though, right?"

He actually really didn't care about _everyone_. But he was curious about his mystery girl. The way she'd looked at him, as if she wasn't quite sure she knew what she was looking at, had nagged at him for the rest of the game. She seemed shocked. Like she wasn't expecting to see him there either. He wondered if maybe, just maybe, she'd been as drunk as he was that night. God, if he could only remember.

The dark-haired girl stared at him, her eyes boring into him like she was trying to set him on fire. An unsettling chill swept over him. The way this girl glared at him, the way she seemed to ooze hate, told him one thing was absolutely certain: this wasn't just about what happened on the sideline—she knew about that night. What the hell had he done to earn that look? He swallowed, hard, praying this girl kept her mouth shut in front of Sebastian.

She narrowed her eyes even further at him, then whipped her head toward Sebastian, ignoring Jace's question completely. "I gotta go."

"Hey, now, wait a second, Iz. Why don't you come out to the river?"

"Iz" raised a brow at Sebastian. "To attend your celebratory rave over beating my team? I don't think so."

"Aw, come on. Free booze." Sebastian flashed a flirtatious smile, and Jace held back another eye roll. Pathetic ass.

The girl flashed a glare at Jace. "You going?"

Jace blinked in surprise. "I wasn't planning on it."

His answer seemed to lighten her mood and she turned back to Sebastian. "I'll think about it." With one more glare at Jace, she was gone, walking to the opposite end of the parking lot.

Sebastian whistled. "Damn, dude. What'd you do to get Izzy in such a tizzy?"

"Well, besides nearly killing her best friend? I have no idea." It wasn't exactly a lie. He really didn't know for sure what he'd done. As far as he could tell, what happened that night was mutual. She didn't have any right to hate him for that. Her friend was just as much to blame.

Sebastian pushed off from the side of the car. "So, you sure you don't want to come?"

Jace thought about it. He really didn't want to go home, but he didn't want to go to the party either. He just wasn't in the mood to act happy right now. Besides, if he hurried, he could quarantine himself upstairs before his father got home. As long as he wasn't anywhere in sight, his father wouldn't trouble himself with another lecture tonight, too busy going over the game to bother.

"Nah. I'm just gonna go home."

"Come on, Sunshine. We beat those bastards tonight, even though they played like dirty whores. Come celebrate."

Jace shook his head. "Not tonight, Seb. I'll see you later."

Without another word, he walked the last few steps to his car, climbed in, and started out of the school parking lot. His mind was so jumbled. Between his father and his mystery girl, he couldn't seem to focus. He knew he should be thinking about the game, about all the ways he'd screwed it up because his father would ask him to detail it tomorrow. But he couldn't stop his thoughts from turning to the girl. Her wide green eyes, and the surprise and fear behind them when she'd met his. How small and fragile she'd felt under his hands. Jace let out a huff of breath and shook his head.

She was not at all what he'd expected. Girls like Kaelie were more his type. Tall, thin, curvy, kind of slutty. He wasn't proud of it, but he couldn't help what he was attracted to. This girl was none of those things. She was short, very short, and very tiny. Jace had actually had to look down to see her. Her body was thin, but it had almost no curves, and she was practically flat-chested. Her face was cute, but plain and covered in freckles. He just couldn't figure out what it was that had attracted him to her in the first place, let alone what had turned him on so much he'd nailed her against the door—during the season. Which he wouldn't even do with Kaelie. It just didn't make sense.

In an effort to make himself stop thinking about it, Jace turned on the radio. He flipped through several stations before finding one that didn't seem too bad. He drove through the streets on auto, not really paying attention to the things around him beyond turning and stopping at the appropriate intersections. After a few minutes, a song started that immediately had Jace reaching for the dial. It was some of that dance shit that Jace couldn't stand. But as soon as his finger touched the radio, the first verse of lyrics started and a picture materialized in his mind.

It was her. Long, red curls flowing down her back. Head thrown back, laughing. The sound bounced around in his head, and he blinked against the image, but it didn't leave. It grew. Pieces fitting themselves together and creating more than a single picture, but instead a reel of them.

"_We did a dance routine to this song a few weeks ago at a pep rally." The girl took another chug of whatever she was drinking from the red plastic cup in her hand. Her big, green eyes peered over the rim at him. They were the only things he could see besides the abundance of soft, flaming curls framing her face._

"_I don't believe you," Jace said._

_Her brows rose in challenge, her cheeks flushed from the alcohol she'd drunk. She was cute in feisty yet innocent way sort of way. "What? Why not?"_

"_Because there's no way they'd let you."_

"_And why is that?"_

"_Seriously? The lyrics aren't exactly appropriate for school."_

_She huffed, the anger in her eyes making the green darken, and Jace's smile widen. "I can prove it, you know."_

Jace shook his head, trying to clear it so he could drive. But the memory just kept coming and coming, blurring together like the lights lining the road.

"_So go ahead then." He crossed his arms over his chest. "I think I need to see this to believe it."_

"_What? Here?"_

_He shrugged. "Why not? Afraid your lie is going to bite you in the ass?"_

"_No!" She narrowed her eyes, her face flaring bright red. "I'm scared one of these douchebags you call your friends will see it as an open invitation to grab my ass."_

_Jace leaned forward and brushed his thumb over her cheek. Her skin was soft and bore very little makeup. "I won't let anyone grab your ass, baby. Now show me what kind of moves you've got."_

_The girl glared at him for a few moments before she shoved her drink into his hand, stood—well, more like stumbled— to her feet and peeled the green shirt off her body, leaving herself clad in only a skintight tummy shirt, short, black skirt, and calf-high boots. She didn't have a whole lot of curves, but when she started to move, twisting her body in ways Jace wouldn't have imagined her being able to do, the only thing he could think was: damn._

_Jace tipped his cup to his lips, needing to coat his dry mouth and finding it only containing a few drops. He tossed it to the floor and downed hers instead, hissing as the liquid burned his throat. Shit, that was some hard stuff._

_The girl continued to move. Eyes closed. Hands tracing her body. Fingers in her hair. Hips swiveling. Ass gyrating. And Jace continued to watch._

_Damn. It was getting hot in there. And if he wasn't mistaken, the room was swaying with her. _

_Jace fidgeted in his seat. The girl didn't notice anything around her; she was the music and it was her. Her body knew it, felt it, and he wanted to feel it too. His fingers tingled with the urge to touch. Suddenly, the girl stumbled and fell into him. He caught her around the waist, their faces only inches apart, his palms cupping the bare skin of her sides. She laughed, the sound filling his mind with thoughts and feelings he really shouldn't have. His whole body tensed. He went to push her back up, but her fingers closed over his shoulders and she slid into his lap, her legs straddling his hips._

_Jace stared up at her. "I don't think this was part of your routine." He noticed the roughness of his voice and realized the danger, but the warning bells were so diluted with alcohol he just didn't care anymore._

"_I'm improvising." The girl leaned in. "This is what they teach us to do if we mess up. Don't act like it was an accident. Smile. And keep going."_

_And her hips started to move again. Slowly, achingly over him, but not touching. She held herself just above where he wanted her, where he was uncomfortably aching for her, and twisted and swiveled, making him absolutely insane. But he held himself back, his fingers digging into the flesh of her hips, only a small semblance of his vow alive and holding on in his mind. Then her hands slid over his shoulders and down his arms, her hot breath flowing over his ear, singing the lyrics and searing them into his brain._

"'_Want you to take me like a thief in the night. Hold me like a pillow, make me feel right.'"_

_A shudder worked its way through Jace's body, and he felt his fingers twitch with the desire to do just that, but he kept them locked right where they were._

_Her mouth touched the shell of his ear. Purposefully or not, it really didn't matter. "'And when you enter, you ain't leavin', be my prisoner for the night.'"_

_Jace didn't know whether it was the words she sang or the way her body moved above his, but his control snapped. His grip tightened and he pulled her down onto him, his breath leaving him in a groan when her body finally pressed against his. Shit. So good. _

_She let out a small gasp, but didn't try to push away. And Jace was so damn glad he nearly cried out in relief. Her heat soaked into him at every point they touched, her chest heaving against his and fingers gripping at his shoulders. He didn't understand what this was, why he suddenly needed this girl so much it physically hurt. It was wrong, so god-damn wrong. But he didn't care. He turned his face toward hers, his scruff scratching along her soft cheek. Her breath puffed hot and quick against his face and he wanted to taste it. His restraint completely gone now, his hand slipped up her body and into her hair, fisting it and pulling her mouth to his._

A horn blared, and Jace realized he'd been stopped at a red light that was now green. "Shit." He gripped the wheel tight and pressed down on the gas, pulling over and stopping the first chance he got. "What the hell was that?" Jace could still feel the sensation of her pressing against him, of her breath in his ear, on his face, her mouth molded over his. The vision had ended there, but it had been enough to make his body flame.

Jace stared out at the street in front of him, watching the traffic move past. He thrust his hand into his hair, noticing the slight tremble as he pulled at the locks. The girl in that vision was so different from the one he'd met tonight. She was bold, funny, sexy. There was no fear in her face as she'd moved over him, but tonight . . . tonight he didn't see a trace of that girl at all. Which one was the real one?

He needed to know. It was irrational and stupid, and if he knew what was good for him, he'd just let it be. But there was something about her that night. Something that made him lose control of himself in a way he never had before. He needed to know what it was, how she'd done it, and knew the perfect way to find out.

Against everything inside him that screamed for him not to be such an idiotic ass, Jace reached into his pocket and fumbled for his phone. He let out a slow breath as it rang and rang, his anxiety peaking the longer his call remained unanswered. Just before Jace was ready to hang up, a voice answered on the other side.

"Seb?" Jace said. "I need a favor. You know that girl you were with tonight?"

.o.O.o.

"Iz, I don't think this was a very good idea." Clary let her gaze flit over the surrounding area. Dozens of bodies gathered around a giant bonfire built next to the bank of the river, but among those bodies, she didn't recognize a single one. She did, however, recognize the maroon and gold colors being worn by just about everyone there.

This was Northwest's victory party.

After the rather . . . unpleasant . . . ride home from the game, when Isabelle had called with a proposition that would get her out of the house, Clary couldn't resist the invite. As much fun as it was to annoy her father on most occasions, tonight wasn't one of them. Plus, considering the crap day she'd already had, she just wasn't up to it. But this, being here of all places, was not even close to what she wanted to be doing.

"Why not?" Isabelle bent to fill her glass at the keg. "It's just a party. It'll be fun! Besides, you can pretend it's your birthday celebration."

"You know why!" Clary jerked her friend toward her by the arm and whispered in her ear. "_He_ could be here." Her eyes lingered over the nearest people, searching for the face she now knew.

Isabelle shook her head and took a drink from her cup. "He's not coming."

"How do you know?"

"Because he told me." Isabelle shrugged.

"What? You talked to him?" Clary whisper-shouted. "How? When?"

"In the parking lot after the game." She pulled Clary toward the outer circle of the gathering, near the tree line. "I was talking with Sebastian—you know, the brother of my brother's boyfriend's cousin's girlfriend?"

Clary shook her head, really not caring about the brother of her brother's . . . whatever.

Isabelle waved her hand in front of her face. "Nevermind. Anyway, I was talking to Sebastian—who plays offensive line for Northwest—and he—Jace—came out of the locker room. Seb asked him if he was coming and he said no."

"And?"

Isabelle took another drink. "And what?"

Clary narrowed her eyes. "Don't 'and what?' me, what did you say to him?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Come on Izzy, don't BS me right now. I know you."

"I honestly have no clue what you're talking about."

Clary blew out a breath, but it did nothing to loosen the tightness in her chest. "You have done nothing for the past three weeks except talk about what you were going to do to him when we found out who he was. You saw him, so now I want to know what you did."

"You know, I should be insulted right now."

"Izzy!"

"Fine!" She held her hands up in surrender. "Fine. I didn't say or do anything—besides giving him my patented death glare. Which," she smoothed her hands over her skirt, "didn't appear to work on him."

Clary felt her anxiety abate just a little. "Really? You promise you didn't say anything?"

"Yeah. I promise." Isabelle lowered her voice. "Look, Clary. When it was just him taking your virginity while you were drunk, it was one thing. But now. Well, now that you're . . . you know . . . I can't really find it in myself to bitch him out. I mean, it's going to suck enough when you tell him—"

"Whoa, what?" Clary nearly shouted, then quieted herself. "What do you mean 'tell him'? I'm not telling him!"

Isabelle stared at her as if she'd grown a huge zit in the middle of her forehead. "Clary, you have to tell him."

Clary shook her head and backed away, closer to the trees. "I don't have to do anything."

"So, let me get this straight." Isabelle furrowed her brow. "You're going to have this guy's kid and not even tell him? You can't keep this a secret, Clary. That's not fair to either of you!"

"Fair, Isabelle? Honestly? You're going to lecture me on _fair_?"

"I'm not trying to lecture you at all. I'm just—you're not going to be able to keep this a secret for long, and he deserves to know that he's got a kid out there. And you deserve to not do this alone! You weren't alone that night!"

Clary turned toward the wooded area and stared into the darkness. "I don't know what I'm going to do," she said. Part of her knew Isabelle was right, that it wasn't "fair" to not tell Jace, but another part questioned if he would even care. "How am I supposed to tell him? I don't even know him, Izzy. But from the things my dad and brother say about him, he's a serious asshole. I mean, how's he going to respond to me telling him this? Call me a liar? A whore? He doesn't know me anymore than I know him, so he'd be entitled."

Isabelle opened her mouth to probably chew Clary out some more, when her eyes shifted to the area just over Clary's shoulder. "Sebastian you little bastard," she said under her breath.

"What?" Clary went to look behind her, but Isabelle grabbed her shoulders and made her unable to move.

"Okay, don't freak out."

Saying that pretty much had the exact opposite effect on the amount Clary freaked. "You can't tell me not to freak out and expect me to not freak out! What the hell's going on?"

"Remember how I said he wasn't coming?"

"Yeah . . ."

"Well, apparently, he changed his mind."

Clary's eyes widened and she felt all the heat drain from her face. What? He was there? No. She wasn't ready yet! She didn't know what to say or how to even look at him.

Isabelle's hands slipped from Clary's shoulders and she straightened to full height. "He's looking over here," she whispered. "And, sweet baby Jesus, girl, that boy is fine!"

"Izzy!" Clary's heart knocked against her ribs. "What do I do?" Her voice was raspy and urgent.

"Well, first, turn around." Isabelle grabbed Clary by the arms and twisted her back toward the parking lot.

Her breath caught. He was there, and he was coming toward her.

Isabelle leaned in and whispered, "I'm gonna be just over by the bonfire, beating the snot out of Sebastian."

It only took a second for Isabelle's words to register. "What? Izzy! No. You can't leave me!" She grabbed at Isabelle's arms but she slipped through Clary's fingers.

Isabelle looked at her, and the regret was plain in her eyes. "I can't do this for you, Clary." She shook her head. "I'm sorry." And then she backed away, leaving Clary at the edge of the wooded area, alone.

Suddenly, Clary felt very set up. Closing her eyes, she took in a steadying breath before opening them again. And when she did, he was standing right in front of her, a perfect picture of light and dark. He wore a black long-sleeved shirt pushed up to his elbows, his hands were thrust into the pockets of dark jeans, and light sprigs of hair curled up over the rim of a black baseball cap he had backwards on his head. The light from the fire sparked in his eyes, making the gold flicker just like the flame. Clary took in his face, and it was a very, very nice face. A very pretty face.

She swallowed, hard, her tongue feeling like it was three sizes too big in her mouth. She didn't know what to say. What the hell was she supposed to say to this boy who she'd had sex with but didn't remember and was now knocked up by?

He beat her to the opening line anyway.

"So, I'm thinking the proper thing to do would be to introduce myself."

God, his voice. It wrapped around her like silk, evoking fragments of memories and feelings she didn't know she had. She was hot and cold, scared and excited. She had no idea what to do, to feel, to say, but she didn't want to continue to stand there looking like an idiot either.

"Well, that is the logical first step, so it makes sense," she said.

His mouth twitched, and one corner pulled up into a grin. Clary's legs felt like Jell-O. She sincerely hoped they'd hold strong and not decide to just drop her on her ass in front of him. Not that this situation could get much more mortifying, but still.

He held out his hand. "Jace Wayland."

Clary stared at it, and flashes of how those hands felt flooded her mind. Slowly, she reached out and slipped hers in his. His fingers tightened, and his palm swallowed hers. He was so warm. Clary fought against the chill threatening to zip up her spine.

"Clary Morgenstern."

"I would say it's nice to meet you," Jace said, letting her hand slide from his. "But that seems like a pretty ridiculous thing to say at this point."

In spite of herself, Clary giggled. _Giggled?_ God.

"Yeah, I guess it is," she said. "Though, I don't really remember a proper introduction last time, so it's probably an okay sentiment."

A strange look crossed his face, a mix of relief and disappointment. "So, you don't remember either?"

Clary slowly shook her head. "No . . . I mean, not much." She bit her lip and held his eyes. "Enough to . . . you know . . . get the gist, though."

He studied her for a moment before his mouth twisted into that smirk again, and Clary's legs wobbled. Damn it. Why did he have to unleash that thing?

"The gist, yes, that sounds about right," he said.

Clary took in a breath and let it out slowly. This had to be the weirdest experience of her life. Here she was, standing in front of the one person she'd done the most intimate thing in the world with, and she didn't know a thing about him. Not his age, his favorite color, what kind of music or television shows he liked. Up until a couple of hours ago, she didn't even know his name. But she did know one thing about him that no one else in the world knew—not even him.

He was going to be a father.

Her stomach clenched, and a twinge of nausea rolled over her. A small squeak escaped from her lips, and Clary cleared her throat in an attempt to cover the sound.

Jace seemed not to notice and glanced toward the crowd. He raised his hand to his head, slipped his hat off, and ran his hand through his hair. Clary itched to touch it too. She could almost feel it sliding through and curling around her fingers. She wondered if it was as soft as her memory told her it was.

"Listen," he said, looking back at her and replacing the cap. Clary couldn't decide whether to be happy or sad about that. She loved his hair, but there was just something about a guy in a backwards cap too. "Do you think we could go somewhere and . . . talk?"

Clary raised her brows, surprised. She shot a glance to where she'd last seen Isabelle. She was there, her eyes flickering over to Clary as she twisted her fist in a dark-haired boy's shirt and wore her bitch face.

With a deep breath, Clary looked back at Jace. He watched her with uncertainty, with nervousness. This wasn't what she'd expected from the stories she'd heard from her father and brother. She'd expected someone different, someone cocky and unshakable. Her brother had talked of how Jace was on the field, how even when he was just a freshman playing on Varsity, he always looked like he thought he owned that field. But what she saw right now wasn't any of that. She wondered how much of what he was on the field was real and how much was show.

Isabelle's words came back to her. _You __have __to __tell __him, __Clary._Fear gripped her heart in its cold, hard fist. What was she going to say to him? She couldn't just blurt it out like: _You __know __that__ night __where __we__ did __it __against __a __door? __Well, __congratulations, __because __you__ have__ excellent __aim,__ Daddy!_ God, she couldn't think straight, but she knew Isabelle was right. Sooner or later, she would have to tell him. When, was the winning question though.

Slowly, she nodded.

Jace's stance loosened just a little. "Okay." He stretched his hand toward the trees. "There's a bench on the other side. We should be alone there."

Clary blinked and wondered if this was a good idea. The last time she'd been alone with him, well, she may not remember the details, but the evidence of what went on was pretty indisputable. But for this conversation, she figured "alone" was the best way for them to be. The things they had to say, the things she had to tell him, were not for others to hear.

Nervously, she caught Jace's eye, nodded again, and allowed him to lead her into the dark.

* * *

><p><em>Who wants to junk punch Jace's father with me? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?<em>

_As much as you may hate me for ending it there, I really believe you'd hate me more if I ended it after the next section (you will probably STILL hate me after you read it). ;) Also, this convo is better coming from Jace's POV. (trust me, I'd originally continued it in Clary's—Jace's is much, MUCH better!)_

_Plus, I gave you a sneak peek of the sexy, so that should appease you a LITTLE anyway._

_To those who were asking, Jace and Clary DO NOT remember everything that happened that night, nor will they ever. You will see pieces of it that each of them recall here and there, but there will never be a full scene and you will never have all the answers. I'm sorry, but that's just the way it happened, and since I only write what they know, I can't give you that scene. :(_

_Oh, and just because my beta asked this question (and maybe some of you might have wondered the same thing) the game they just played was not a league game. It was more like an exhibition-style game in their city only. We played a game like this back in my hometown against one of the area schools every year. It didn't count toward our league standings and there was a trophy awarded to the winning team. The MVP trophy Jace received (even though he and his dad both swear he played like crap...) was for that game only. Hope that makes sense.  
><em>

_Lots of love and thanks to LLWB for beta-ing, again. She rocks my socks._

_Until next time. XOXO ~ddpjclaf_


	5. It's too Damn Late

******The character names of The Mortal Instruments are owned by Cassandra Clare. The original content, ideas, and intellectual property of this story are owned by ddpjclaf, 2011. Please do not copy, reproduce, or translate without express written permission.******

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Five - "It's too Damn Late"<strong>

_Well, since my hubby is returning home after being away for 10 days tomorrow, y'all get this lovely chapter a day early. Please don't kill me._

_*This is unbeta'd for now since the lovely Lightlacedwithbeauty has finals this week. She'll go over it and I'll correct any mistakes later. :)_

_Chapter Songs:_

_**She Hates Me – Puddle of Mudd_

_**It's All Your Fault - Pink_

* * *

><p>Clary Morgenstern.<p>

_Morgenstern._

Shit.

As if messing up his game wasn't bad enough, she had to be a Morgenstern on top of it. Damn it, this sucked in all the wrong, very non-fun ways.

Jace moved silently through the copse of trees, trying to wrap his mind around what the hell he was doing. Initially, his plan had just been to make sure the girl—whoever she was—didn't talk about what happened that night. It didn't seem like too much to ask, and he still meant to do it, but first . . . first he felt this need to know how she managed to make him lose himself like that in the first place. No one had ever gotten to him that way, drunk or not. How the hell had she done it?

That vision of her moving over him . . . Jesus . . . it still made him hot.

But none of that, not the fact that she'd made him laugh, nor that she'd driven him so crazy he couldn't control himself, would ever erase the fact that she was a Morgenstern. The thought almost made him shudder. There were just some things that should never happen, that were unnatural. A Wayland and a Morgenstern was one of them. His father could never, ever find out or Jace wouldn't have to worry about sex ever again. He grimaced at the thought of what his father might do to him if he knew.

Noises from the party grew further away as they walked through the trees. Only the dim glow of the fire at their backs gave any light. But it wasn't enough to really see where they were going. Jace kept his right hand out, feeling ahead of him for trees or cobwebs. After only several feet, Clary let out a soft gasp and pitched forward. Jace reached out automatically and caught her arm, his other hand fanning out across her lower back.

"You all right?" he asked, an exact echo of what he'd asked her earlier at the game.

"Yeah. I'm okay," she said, her voice squeaked nervously.

Clary started forward, and Jace moved with her, keeping his hands on her and making sure she didn't fall. Or maybe he just wanted to touch her, he couldn't be sure at that point and it was making him feel like a total ass. Why was he feeling like this? Acting like this? Jace Wayland wasn't polite. He didn't "protect" anyone, especially a Morgenstern, so what the hell was his problem? He had no idea, but he couldn't deny the heat that seared up his arm from the contact with her.

_God._ _Get a grip, you asshole_, he thought.

It had to be the mystery of it all. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew things had gone down with this girl, but he didn't know if_ he'd_ gone down. Jace knew he'd touched her, but he wanted to know how he'd touched her and whether or not she'd liked it when he had. He couldn't help it, he was a man, and, damn it, he needed to know these things! The lack of details was driving him mad.

The darkness grew thicker as they walked further, and Jace felt Clary's muscles stiffen under his hands. He couldn't help his mind from wandering to the snippet of memory that came back to him that evening. The sly, flirtatious glint in her eyes as they'd talked. The sexy, inviting sway of her hips as she'd danced. The feel of her flesh under his palms. Without thinking, Jace's hand tightened and his fingers dug into Clary's back.

She flinched and pulled away from him.

Jace froze. God. He was such an idiot. "I'm sorry," he said. "I shouldn't have touched you."

"No. It's not—"

"I swear I just want to talk. I won't touch you again." He paused and tucked his hands into his pockets to avoid the temptation, because, if he were being honest, he was really tempted. "You probably won't believe this considering what we're pretty sure we did that night, but I really can keep my hands and other . . . parts . . . to myself."

Jace heard a snort and then a throat clearing. He really wished he could see her, to know the expression on her face.

"I'm pretty sure it takes two parts to tango."

Jace smiled. "Well, I should certainly hope so, or I'm an even bigger dick than I already think I am."

Clary was silent. Too silent. Hell. He'd just said "dick" to the girl he couldn't remember sticking his—

"Sorry," Jace said. "I shouldn't have said dick." He paused. "Shit. I said it again."

A muffled chuckle came from the dark next to him. "You act as if I've never heard the word dick before."

Her voice still held the nervous waver from before, but there was something else underneath. A sort of sassiness, reminiscent of the small memory he had of her from that night. And the way she said dick . . . ShitshitshitshitSHIT! _Jace, don't think like that_, he scolded himself.

What the hell was it about this girl? Why was he so curious? She was just a girl like any other girl, and he had to make sure what happened between them stayed between them. He honest to God wasn't trying to be an asshole, but he couldn't deal with this right now. His father was up in his shit about everything lately, but this . . . Jace couldn't even imagine the horror of what his father would do if he found out Jace had boned a Morgenstern. The shudder he'd held back earlier ripped its way through his body at the numerous scenarios that flashed through his mind.

Up ahead a soft glow of dull, yellow light touched the edge of the trees. Silently, Jace and Clary stepped through together and found themselves in a small clearing of sorts. A circle of flagstones covered the ground, and several wood and metal benches lined the perimeter. Shriveling bushes formed a hedge around most of circle. They didn't look like much now, but in the summer they bloomed with tiny, white flowers and filled the air with their pungent scent. In the center of the space, stood a stone fountain with a statue of a cupid rising up from the middle. The bow and arrow in its hand pointed straight at Jace and Clary.

Jace frowned and moved away from its aim. When he was a kid, Jace's mother used to bring him to the "The Secret Garden of Lover's", which is how he knew it was there. Lame name, he knew, but the place was special to his mom, so he let her drag him there. He'd never brought anyone else before, and kind of wished he hadn't now. He didn't want the place soiled by the conversation he was about to have.

Clary moved away from him and toward the fountain. The underwater lights and the moon above were just enough to highlight the look of awe on her face. She stepped up to the large stone angel and touched her finger to the tip of his arrow, and then pulled her hand back quickly, rubbing her thumb and index finger together.

"It's sharp," she said, then stuck her finger in her mouth, sucking on the end.

Jace swallowed and moved his gaze away from her and back to the fountain. "It's a real arrow. Probably should have told you that before you touched it."

He saw her glance at him from the corner of his eye. "A heads up would have been nice." She paused. "I've been to the river a ton of times and I never knew this place existed. Seems too romantic for a situation like this." She gestured between the two of them.

Finally, he looked at her full on. She was gazing up at the statue again, watching the stream of cool water bubble over the cupid's shoulder and down into the basin below. "I take that to mean you don't think drunken door sex is all that romantic."

Clary whipped her head toward him, her eyes wide, and if he wasn't mistaken, her cheeks flushed. "You remember that?" she whispered.

"Unfortunately, no." He grinned. Yes, he was fully aware of what a douche he was, but if he was going to get lucky, he damn sure wanted to remember it. "Just the—what word did you use earlier?"

"Gist?" Her voice was rough, embarrassed.

"Right. Gist." He nodded. "Before I saw you today, I remembered red hair, a door, and a pair of black boots. Although hot, not much to go on, sadly."

Clary closed her eyes and tipped her head back before opening them again. "Okay, as if this wasn't embarrassing enough, you had to remember those boots."

"Of course I remember them. Are you kidding? They were the highlight of the strip-tease and everything."

"What?" she yelled, her eyes so huge Jace thought they were going to pop out of her head.

Jace chuckled. "Kidding." He paused. "At least I think I'm kidding . . . Though I do remember you dancing for me."

She groaned and sat down on the nearest bench, her forehead in her hand. "I guess it's time we talk about what happened."

Jace followed and sat beside her, careful to keep his distance. "Look," he said. "There's really no need to make this a big deal. It was once. We were drunk. Hell, neither of us even really remembers much of anything. It'd be easy enough just to forget about it."

Her eyes locked on his. "Is that what you want?" she asked, her gaze probing his face, questioning. "To forget about it?" There was something in her words, something Jace couldn't quite pinpoint. It was as if she was asking another question instead. He didn't know what it could be, but it was starting to make him nervous. Why the hell _wouldn't_ she want to forget about this?

"Why not? Do you make it a habit to discuss all your conquests afterward?"

Clary drew in a sharp breath, and even in the low light, Jace saw her eyes flare. "My what?" Her voice trembled with the words.

"Your conquests. You know, the other guys you've slept with."

She launched herself to her feet, almost as if the bench had burned her. "Oh, right. Because I've obviously had a ton, right? I knew that's what you'd think. You think I'm a slut."

Jace rose too, his brows pulling together. "I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to say it! I'm not an idiot. I know what you meant."

His temper flared. "That wasn't what I meant! How can I know whether you're a slut or not? I don't know anything about you. Let alone how many guys you've screwed."

She stepped toward him. "There's always a double standard, isn't there? I don't have a clue how much you get around—which could be a whole hell of a lot—but you get to call me a slut? I am _not_ a slut!" She poked him hard in the chest. "For your information, asswipe, there haven't been _any_ other guys." Her eyes widened and her breath caught, as if she hadn't meant to say that at all.

The revelation knocked the wind right out of Jace. "What?"

Clary shook her head violently. "Nothing. Just . . . nothing." She held her hand out and stepped away, crossing her arms over her chest.

Jace stood there staring at her. She was not saying what he thought she was saying, was she? She wasn't a god-damned virgin when they— No. Shit. No.

"You're not telling me you were a—"

She glared at him. "Why do you care? Does it really even matter?"

"Hell yes it matters!" He was angry now. Not at her, but at himself, at what she was insinuating he'd done. If she really had been a virgin, then he was nothing but a cherry stealing bastard. He'd never taken a virgin before, never wanted the responsibility of being that guy, because he actually wasn't a heartless dick like he sounded right now. He really believed that if a guy was going to be a girl's first, then he should actually care enough to take his time and be careful with her. And now, he finds out that he may have taken Clary's virginity against a door? Jesus. He was an asshole!

"Why? What difference does it make to you? Other than bagging a virgin being good for bragging to your jock friends."

"Are you shitting me? I'm not telling anyone about this!" He felt the shame and regret curdle in his stomach.

Her eyes narrowed. "You know what? My father and brother were right about you. You are an arrogant son of a bitch." And then she stormed past him, but before she reached the tree line, Jace caught her by the arm.

"What? You _want _me to tell people? Is that what this was all about? Why? For some sort of twisted game you and your dad can play with me? You get me to screw you and you get to make me out to be the bad guy? I don't care what your father or your brother think of me. In fact, I don't care what you think. But you can't go around telling people about this shit."

Clary jerked her arm away. "Believe me, I wish I didn't have to tell anyone about this 'shit'. I wish I'd never done this 'shit'! I wish I'd never met you! But it's too late for that now!" She turned away again, but Jace stepped in front of her, blocking her way.

"What the hell are you talking about?" He stepped closer, his voice scarily low but rising with each word. "Do you think this is a game? It's not a damn game to me! You don't understand what this will do to me if this gets out. No one can know!"

"It's too damn late for that!" she shouted back.

"Why do you keep saying that? Why is it too late? All you have to do is keep your damn mouth shut!" He was seeing red now, and he was not at all prepared for what she said next.

"Because I'm pregnant, you asshole!"

Jace felt every ounce of breath leave him, his stomach aching like someone had kicked him. What the hell did she just say? He couldn't move, or think, or breathe, or speak. The only thing he could do was stare. Stare at her face and the way her eyes filled with tears. She grimaced against the small squeaky cry that fell from her lips and shoved him hard in the chest before disappearing into the trees.

.o.O.o.

She would not cry. She would _not_ cry. Clary rushed into the woods, dry branches scraping through her hair and against her jacket. A knot of anger filled her throat, and her eyes stung with tears, but she would not let them fall. Not because of him.

Never because of him.

Exposed tree roots pulled at her feet, and she stumbled several times, but luckily she did not fall. She didn't know if he was behind her and she didn't care. She didn't care if she ever saw Jace Wayland again. Bastard.

A shuddering breath fell from her lips. Oh, God, did she really just tell him like that? Her heart thrashed wildly in her chest and she felt sick. She wanted to puke, to heave every single bit of food she'd eaten all day onto the ground. Maybe if she did, he'd slip and fall in it, the asshole. It wouldn't even be half of what she wished she could do to him.

Music and conversation emanating from the bonfire grew louder, and before she knew it, Clary stepped out of the trees and was surrounded by laughing, smiling faces. She swallowed against the bile rising in her throat.

Where was Isabelle?

She needed to get out of there. Now.

Clary's gaze roamed over the crowd, searching for her friend's shining, black hair. There she was, in the same spot near the bonfire that she'd been earlier. Clary stood there for what felt like hours before Isabelle's eyes met hers. It only took one look before Isabelle broke away from her conversation and pushed through the horde.

Clary felt her eyes fill once more, but she was still determined to not shed a tear.

Isabelle was at her side in moments. "Jesus, what happened?"

Clary shook her head, not sure she could even speak.

"Tell me." Isabelle grabbed her face. "What did he do to you?"

"Nothing," Clary managed. "He didn't do anything to me, but . . . Izzy . . . I want to go home. Please. Take me home."

Isabelle studied her for another few seconds, before nodding her head and draping her arm over Clary's shoulders, pulling her into her side. "Okay. Let's go."

They had almost reached the edge of the crowd, when Clary heard his name.

"Jace! There you are, man. I wondered where you went off to."

Clary didn't turn and started walking faster. She couldn't look at him. Isabelle kept up with her, but Clary could feel the stress in her arm. She wanted to know what happened.

"Clary . . .?" Isabelle said, and Clary could hear the worry in her voice.

"I told him."

"You what?" Isabelle yelled. Several people turned to look at them and she immediately lowered her voice. "Crap. I take it that went well?"

Clary snorted and shook her head. "Exceptionally."

"Are you okay?"

"No."

"Clary! Wait!" She heard her name being called in _that_ voice, and groaned. Even though she kind of hated him and wished his private parts would fall off, that voice and the memory of its breathy cadence in her ear still made her stomach jolt. "Shit. Just . . . wait a second."

Isabelle glanced at Clary and raised her brows. Clary shook her head slightly and Izzy got the hint. She pulled Clary in tighter to her side and took off even faster to where she'd parked the car. They reached it a few seconds later, and before Clary had a chance to think, Isabelle had the door open and was shoving Clary inside. She fell into the seat and the door slammed shut behind her. Clary heard the low rumble of _his_ voice coming from just outside her window, and she closed her eyes and covered her ears. She couldn't stand to hear or see him right now, maybe not ever. All she wanted was to leave. To go home and forget she'd ever looked at, had ever even met, Jace Wayland. She wanted to forget that he, and this night, ever existed.

.o.O.o.

"Don't take another step or I swear on everything holy I'll totally junk punch you." The scary-looking black-haired girl, the one Sebastian called Izzy, stood protectively in front of the passenger side door.

Normally Jace would be beyond protective of his nuts, but at the moment he was a bit pissed at them as well. He could see Clary's fire-red curls through the window. She had her head down, her face in her hands. There was something about seeing her like that that made his determination falter.

Izzy stepped into his line of vision and his eyes flickered to hers.

"I just want to—"

"Don't you think you've done enough?"

Jace drew in a breath and took another step forward, but Izzy's hand slammed into his chest. He glared down at her. All he wanted to do was—Christ, he had no idea. He tried to push her hand away, but she twisted her fist into his shirt and shoved him back. He was surprised by the strength behind it.

"Listen," she said, narrowing her eyes. "Since this all started, the only thing I've wanted to do is kick the shit out of you for what you did to my friend. And I'm so close right now, you have no idea." She paused and loosened her hold on his shirt. "But for whatever reason, she doesn't want me to hurt you. I don't know what happened out there, and I may just change my mind when I find out, but for now, your ass is safe."

Jace stared at her, trying to decide whether or not he should be afraid. The look of malice in Izzy's eyes told him that, yeah, he probably should. But he couldn't let her know that. He let his gaze wander back to the car where Clary sat, and she was still in the same position: her face hidden, her body rocking back and forth. Again, he wavered.

So many questions billowed up in his mind, so many things he needed but did not want to know. Considering the colossal pile of shit he was in, he was surprised by which came out first. "Was she—" He swallowed hard. "Was she really a . . . a virgin?" When he looked back at the girl in front of him, he saw her forehead crease and eyes soften. Izzy didn't even need to answer for him to know the truth; he saw it in her face. Damn it.

She nodded, removing her hand from his shirt and crossing her arms over her chest. "Yep."

"Shit," he whispered and pushed his hand up under his cap and into his hair. "So, I—I hurt her, then." He didn't know why he was focusing on that when there was a much bigger issue at hand. Maybe because the other was just so beyond what he could comprehend at the moment that he decided to keep his mind on the lesser of two evils. Or maybe it was because—as much as the other was a massive mess up—the fact that he'd done what he did to a girl with no experience, he didn't know if he could forgive himself.

"Yeah, well, what do you expect when you ram something like that into someone . . . like her?"

Jace grimaced and looked away. He didn't even want to try to imagine. Not to brag or anything, but it wasn't like he was lacking in the size department. And Clary was damn tiny. Not just in height either, which Jace had nearly a foot on her, but everywhere. When he'd had his hand against her back earlier, his fingers easily stretched all the way across, even curling slightly around her side.

"Look," Izzy said, her gaze focusing on the area beside him before returning to his face once more. "I still want to kick your ass, and I may just do it one of these days, but you seem like you're being sincere that you didn't know she was, you know . . . innocent. I'm sure it hurt like a bitch, but lucky for her she doesn't remember."

Jace rubbed his hands over his face. "I don't remember a god-damned thing either. And now she's—" He felt his chest tighten and his stomach squeeze, as he let his mind go there. Nausea rose in his gut and he bent forward, placing one hand on his knee and breathing deeply. "Shit."

"Hey, if you're gonna puke, do it where I can't see. That's just disgusting."

Jace shook his head and continued to breathe until the sick feeling subsided. He didn't know what to say or think. He'd screwed up. Worse than he could have ever imagined screwing up. His father was going to cut off his balls and display them on the mantle as a reminder. And now this girl that he hardly knew was going to have his kid. His _kid. _

He groaned as the nausea came back full force. He needed to figure this out, to know what was going to happen next. "Let me talk to her."

Izzy shook her head and set herself back into a protective stance. "Not right now."

Anger flared and he stood upright. "Why the hell not? This isn't even any of your business!"

The girl stepped closer once more, her hands curling into fists. "She doesn't want to talk to you anymore tonight."

"But—"

"No 'buts'," she said. "I get that this sucks for you, okay? But—and I'm not actually trying to be a bitch or anything—don't you think it sucks just a little bit more for her?"

Jace shook his head, not able to think past the fact that he'd knocked up some chick he didn't know. No—not just some chick, a Morgenstern. Hell, the nausea was back again. He closed his eyes. Maybe this was a dream, a horrible nightmare that he would wake up from any moment now.

"I know you're freaking out," Izzy said. "I don't blame you, but consider that she's probably freaking out a hundred, a thousand, times more. Unless she tells everyone you're the father, you get to live free from all this. She doesn't. Ever. Everyone will always know her as: Clary, the girl who got knocked up in tenth grade. Not: Clary the cheerleader, or Clary the top art student in the city. She doesn't get to be any of that to anyone anymore. The only thing she gets to be is this. So why don't you just suck on that for awhile while you're enjoying your little pity party here."

Jace met her eyes, and he didn't know what he felt. Rage. Uncontrollable fear. Yes. But there was something else too. Something he couldn't quite pinpoint.

What Clary's friend seemed to forget was that he had a life too. He had hopes and dreams and people who looked at him as something special too. Colleges were sending scouts to look at him. Football coaches from all over the country wanted him on their team. He was on his way to being everything he and his father dreamed he could be. But now . . . now what would happen with all of that?

Yes, technically, he could turn his back and walk away. If Clary never told anyone who he was, he could get off free and clear—but could he live with himself if he did?

Izzy sighed. "Give me your number."

"What?" Jace asked.

She rolled her eyes. "Your cell number, give it to me."

"Why?"

"So I can prank call you at all hours of the day and night until you have no choice but to smash your phone or get a new number." She paused, and stared at him like he had no brain. "For when she feels like talking to you again, dumbass. Just give it to me." She held out her hand for his phone.

Jace reached into his pocket, and when he pulled his cell out, he realized his hand was shaking. The girl took it and punched in some numbers. The loud beat of some lame-ass pop song sounded from her pocket before it abruptly cut off.

"There," she said, handing him his phone back and pausing when she placed it in his trembling palm. She looked up at him and a hint of pity flashed through her eyes—but just a hint. "Just give her some space. When she's ready, I'll give her your number."

He nodded as she walked away, but he didn't know if he could hold up his end of the bargain. His gaze moved to the window again, and this time Clary looked up and met his stare. Her eyes were sad, angry, and most of all, scared. And he knew how she felt, he was angry and scared too.

As the car pulled away, he watched the taillights fade into the dark, and he was unable to move or even breathe. He was aware of what was going on around him, but none of that seemed to exist in his world anymore. Because for all intents and purposes, the world he'd known and been a part of just minutes before, had just imploded all around him.

.o.O.o.

The look in his eyes as she and Isabelle had pulled away should have given Clary some sort of satisfaction. Wasn't that what she wanted? For him to be frightened? For him to suffer as much as she was? But for some reason, it didn't make her feel any better. Clary was angry, so, so angry at the things he'd said, but hadn't she—at least in some incarnation—expected him to think that way?

No. That still didn't make it okay. He assumed she was sleeping with everyone and their brother. No matter what had happened between them that night, no matter that any teenage guy would have thought the same—because they're just that stupid—he didn't have the right to assume those things about her.

"Clary." Isabelle's voice interrupted Clary's thoughts. "Are you okay?"

Clary rolled her eyes. "Why do you keep asking me that?" She turned and glared at Izzy. "What do you think, Isabelle?"

Isabelle's jaw tensed and she stared out the windshield. "You know, I get that this is a crappy night for you, but you don't have to be such a bitch. I'm only trying to help."

Clary groaned and lowered her face into her hands once more. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to take it out on you."

Isabelle flipped on the turn signal and veered the vehicle onto Clary's street. She was silent for a few moments before speaking. "I know, and it's okay." Her eyes flicked to Clary then back to the road. "Do you want to talk about what happened?"

"Not really." She closed her eyes and thought back to the conversation—more like explosive verbal diarrhea—with Jace. Heat crept up her neck as she remembered some of the things she'd said. "This is so messed up."

"You scared the hell out of that boy."

Clary snorted, somewhat pleased with that fact.

"I'm serious." Isabelle glanced at her once more. "He was freaking shaking."

"Good," Clary said. But the feeling in her gut wasn't as satisfied as she thought it should be.

Isabelle pulled up to the curb outside Clary's house. The light in the living room was on, but the one in her Mom's studio over the garage was still out. Clary sighed. Her mom was probably not home from her show in the city yet. With Jonathan at school and her mom out of town, it would just be her and her dad tonight. Great. Just what she needed.

She reached for the door handle, when Isabelle grabbed hold of her arm. "Clary?"

"Yeah?"

"I can't believe I'm saying this but . . . maybe you should give him a chance."

"What? Who?"

"Jace. You know, the dude who got you into this mess."

` A burst of anger flared up inside her and she jerked her arm away. "How can you say that? He's an asshole. You said it yourself!"

"I know," Izzy said. "It's just . . . this is going to be hard enough as it is, you know? You don't need to have any animosity between you and him to go on top of it."

"You have no idea what he said to me!" Clary said.

"That's because you won't tell me!" Isabelle returned, her voice just as loud and high as Clary's.

"He called me a slut!"

Isabelle froze, her mouth hanging open in the shape of an O. "What? He actually called you that?"

Clary blinked, replaying the conversation in her mind.

_Do you make it a habit to discuss all your conquests?_

_You know, the other guys you've slept with._

Clary bit her lip and shrugged. "In so many words . . ."

"Wait, wait, wait." Isabelle waved her hand in front of her face. "What exactly did he say? Word for word."

With a deep breath, Clary told Isabelle everything. When she was finished, the heaviness in her stomach had grown worse. Isabelle stayed quiet, her teeth worrying her bottom lip. With each second she didn't speak, Clary grew more and more uneasy.

"Well?" Clary said. "Why aren't you saying anything?"

Isabelle screwed her mouth up to the side and looked away.

"Iz?"

Several more seconds passed before she spoke. "I'm sorry he upset you, Clary, I really am, but . . ."

"But . . .?"

"But . . . I really don't think he was calling you a slut."

Clary started to protest, but Isabelle held her hand up to silence her.

"I'm not saying that what he did say was right or deserved, but he wasn't saying you were a slut. He was wrongly assuming you'd had sex before."

"A lot of sex."

"Fine. A lot of sex. Whatever."

"What's the difference?"

"There's a big difference, Clary."

Clary stared down at her hands and played with her fingers. "So you think I overreacted?"

Isabelle sighed. "I don't know. Honestly, if it were me, I'd probably have done the same thing. Except I would have added a lot more junk punching and ball twisting." Clary glanced up and scowled. "Sorry!" Isabelle said. "But it's the truth. I can understand why you were offended—especially considering how he left you and now that you're knocked up and everything. But . . . I don't know. The way he looked tonight after you told him . . . I seriously thought he was going to puke."

Clary lowered her forehead to the dashboard and knocked her head against it lightly a few times. "This is all so freaking confusing, Iz. I don't know what to do."

"Who says you have to know what to do right now? I mean, you have nine months, right?"

Clary looked up and glared again. "Not funny."

Izzy shrugged. "It was sorta funny."

"It was _not_ funny." Clary glanced out the window to the glow coming through the living room. God, her parents were going to kill her, and Jace, and then probably come back for another round on her. "What am I going to do?" she whispered again.

Isabelle shifted in the seat next to Clary and pulled something out of her pocket. "Take some time to think about it. I meant it when I said you don't need to know right now. Then, when you think you know . . ."

Clary's phone buzzed in her pocket. She reached in and pulled it out, frowning when she saw it was a text from Isabelle. Her heart raced when she saw the message, and she lifted her eyes to Izzy's.

Her friend stared back at her, her face calm but serious. "The next move is yours."

Clary's hand tightened around her phone, and slowly, she looked back down. Beneath her fingers, the screen glowed bright white in the dark space, only the black characters Isabelle had typed marred its perfection. Her hand trembled and she swallowed hard as she read the screen again.

_214-441-7834_

__For when you know.__

* * *

><p><em>AN:_

_Yikes. That was bad, I know. Don't shoot the messenger._

_I received an interesting review after the last chapter that I thought I might discuss here, because I think what was pointed out was important. The review stated that the reader felt that Clary didn't have enough personality, that the other characters were well drawn and 'real' but Clary was still a bit of a mystery._

_I agree. And it's also partially intentional on my part. We met Clary right when she was thrust into this life changing situation. We've watched her recovering from a hangover, discovering she lost her virginity to a stranger, getting her first gyno exam, and finding out she was pregnant. That's a lot for a young girl to have happen to her at once, and she's been dealing with the aftermath of that, rather than sharing her hopes and dreams and life with us. Personally, I think she HAS shown her personality in the way she interacts with Izzy, the things she talked about in ch.1 with how she acts around her father, and also, how she acted in Jace's memory of her (although she was drunk and probably a bit more…free then, lol). You have to forgive her zombieishness at the moment because the girl is in shock. That's pretty much the deal. You'll see her blossom and learn about the things that are important to her and what she wants for her future as the story goes on. Don't worry._

_The review also stated that Clary was the most important character of the story, and this is where I disagreed wholeheartedly. No, she is not. She was never meant to be. She and Jace share equal importance to this telling. Clary's trial with the pregnancy/birth/afterward are NOT any more important than Jace's. This story is a tale of BOTH their journeys, not just Clary's. That's why there are dual POV's._

_I'd hoped that came through in how I've been presenting it (why you've gotten quite a bit of what Jace is dealing with in his life—you will see more of Clary's home life soon as well.) And, admittedly, I was hoping that if I gave you more of a glimpse into Jace's life, then you may not immediately want to turn him into the bad guy. I wanted you to see that what happened between them was a rash, MUTUAL decision. And that BOTH of them are equally at fault for the consequences, and BOTH of them will suffer with them. You can believe what you want about whether their suffering is equal or not. _

_Please just be patient. Character development is NEVER complete by chapter 4/5. Never._

_Until next time, XOXO. ~ddpjclaf_


	6. Show Me Your Soul

****The character names of The Mortal Instruments are owned by Cassandra Clare. The original content, ideas and intellectual property of this story are owned by ddpjclaf, 2011. Please do not copy, reproduce, or translate without express written permission.****

* * *

><p>Chapter Six - "Show Me Your Soul"<p>

_On we go. Hope you enjoy._

_This chapter is again, unbeta'd. Once it's edited I'll fix the mistakes._

_Chapter Songs:_

_**Echo – Vertical Horizon_

_**Rolling in the Deep – Adele _

_**Return to Me – Matthew Ryan_

* * *

><p>The alarm on Jace's phone beeped at ass o'clock in the morning. He groaned and kept his eyes closed as he fumbled for the offending object on the nightstand, only managing to knock it to the floor.<p>

"Christ," he swore and finally opened his eyes.

It was still dark in his room, only the streetlamp right outside the window providing any light. Shadows from the branches of the old maple situated at the back corner of the house swayed in the illumination. Jace flipped over and hung the top half of his body off the bed and felt around the carpet for his rogue phone. When his fingers closed around it, he grabbed it and thrust himself back on the bed. Somehow in his struggle, he managed to press the button on the bottom and the screen lit up, blinding him for a second. Once he'd managed to blink away the black spots, his eyes focused on the list of recent outgoing calls. The topmost was a number he did not recognize, but knew whose it was all the same.

Jace dropped his head back onto the pillow and closed his eyes. So it was all true. Clary. The fight. The baby. For those few seconds before he was fully awake, everything felt normal again. He was still just Jace Wayland, top Varsity quarterback in the county—maybe even the whole state, number one pick for multiple college scouts, some even from the top football schools in the country. But now that he saw that number, now that he remembered, he was just some ass who'd knocked up a girl in high school.

He lifted his hand to grasp at his hair, when pain radiated up his arm. Jace winced and cupped his palm over his left shoulder. The area beneath his fingers was sore, tender to the touch. Rolling over, he flipped on the bedside lamp, then got out of bed and went to his closet. He opened the door and stood half-turned in front of the full-length mirror hanging on the inside. The entire top half of his left shoulder blade was the beginning to bruise.

"Damn it." He brushed his fingers over the top, feeling the ache even with just that light touch. How the hell was he supposed to throw today with his shoulder like that?

Jace knew, as he was being thrown down the night before, that the hits felt wrong. Harder somehow, and more purposeful. He'd always managed to land on that shoulder, which was odd in and of itself—no hit ever landed the same—and every guy who hit him made it a point to shove down on his pads each time they got up, practically grinding him into the ground.

He pressed into the discolored area once more, feeling around for any sort of damage he should be worried about. But it was just a bruise, thankfully.

Damn Morgenstern and his idiot team. Any other time Jace had sustained injury, he'd have shrugged it off as part of the game. Football was a tough sport, and a lot of players ended up hurt or worse. But this wasn't a normal football injury. It would have taken many hard hits to the same area for his shoulder to look like this, especially considering he was protected by pads.

The intent was obvious. Valentine Morgenstern had sent Jace and his father a message. He had been interested in far more than winning that game. He'd wanted to take Jace out of it. But what Jace didn't understand was why. Sure, he knew all about the feud: Morgenstern hated Jace's dad for beating him all those years ago. Big deal. But this seemed a little extreme.

For not the first time, Jace wondered if there was more to this whole thing than he knew. There had to be, because if there wasn't, he swore this had to be the saddest thing he'd ever heard: two grown men whining and crying over games they lost twenty-some years ago. Pathetic.

Jace knew the answers weren't going to come to him as he stood there staring into the mirror at the darkening skin on his upper back. But there was one thing he did know for certain: this injury was probably the least of his worries once Valentine Morgenstern found out what Jace had done to his daughter.

Shit. Clary. What was he going to do about her? About all of this? He couldn't be a father, not now. Jace had too many plans, too many things he wanted out of his life to be saddled with a damn kid. Especially a Morgenstern kid. In his father's mind, there could be no greater sin, Jace was sure of it.

From the corner of his eye, Jace spotted a line of light coming from under his bedroom door. Crossing the room, he quietly peeked out into the hall. The soft sounds of the television drifted toward him, and Jace knew what that meant. His father was already up—or had never gone to bed in the first place—and was reviewing the tape of yesterday's games. Closing his door, Jace turned around and leaned against it, tipping his head back and staring up at the shadows moving across the ceiling.

Out of habit, he tried to run his hand through his hair again, but the pain that lanced through his shoulder reminded him why that was a stupid idea. But it wasn't like making stupid decisions was a new thing for Jace. Apparently, they were the only kind he knew how to make lately.

Jace shook his head and crossed to the window. A dull line of yellow touched the horizon, and he watched as it grew and expanded over the dark night. There had to be something he could do to fix this, some way to convince the girl to . . . he didn't know what. And he didn't know how, considering the girl wouldn't even talk to him.

A loud bang reverberated through the room and Jace jumped at the sound.

"Get a move on, you've only got twenty minutes to get to the field." His father's voice sounded through the door.

"I'm up," Jace called back, his voice still thick with sleep.

"Don't be late, Jace. And have your head screwed on straight today. We've got a lot of work to do this morning."

Jace closed his eyes and groaned as he listened to his father's receding footsteps. This day was going to suck. The morning would consist of his dad ripping him a new one over all the mistakes he'd found while sifting through the game, and Jace would have to bear it while pretending his shoulder wasn't killing him. But worst of all, he'd have to bear it while trying to figure out how the hell to get himself out of an even stickier predicament.

"Damn it." He rested his forehead against the cool glass. "What the hell have I done?"

.o.O.o.

If the soft knock on the door hadn't woken her, Clary was sure the knot she used to call her stomach would have. For days now, it had been like this in the morning. She had the vague notion that she was hungry, but she'd never felt hunger like this before. It was almost as if her stomach tied itself into a knot, then tightened into a rock, lodging itself just under her ribs. It was barely reminiscent of what she'd grown used to the feeling of needing to eat being like. This was more of a ravenous, nauseating need that bordered on torture. And it wasn't just in the morning either. All day she'd suddenly get so hungry she was tempted to gnaw off her own arm just to lessen the pangs a little bit.

She rolled over onto her stomach—the only position that seemed to alleviate the tightness—and pulled her pillow over her head to drown the continuous knocking. It was Saturday, for crying out loud!

"Clary," her mother's voice said quietly, following the click of Clary's opening door, "are you awake?"

Clary removed the pillow from her head and tossed it aside. She answered, "I am now," without opening her eyes.

"Somebody's crabby this morning."

"Mom, it's Saturday." _And I just had the crappiest day imaginable yesterday, so I'm entitled_, Clary thought. Finally she opened her eyes and met her mother's. "When did you finally get home?"

"This morning," her mother said while brushing a few wild strands of auburn hair from her face. Clary wished she had her mother's color instead of the orangey-red crap she'd ended up with.

Clary flipped over onto her back and raised herself up on her elbows. Her stomach clenched in protest. "So, the show went well, then?"

"Better than expected. In fact, I need to be back for a second showing this evening," her mother said, but would not meet her daughter's eye. "Last night, it was late by the time the buyers dispersed, so Luke let me stay over on his couch."

Of course he did. Jocelyn, Clary's mother, spent more time on Luke's "couch" than she did on her own. Clary wondered if her mother thought she was stupid. It certainly seemed like it since she constantly spewed the same lame excuses as to why she couldn't drag herself home night after night from the hour-long drive from the city.

Clary crossed her arms over her chest and stared at her mother. Jocelyn was a beautiful woman: dark red hair, smooth, flawless skin, gorgeous green eyes, a body with curves and delights that made her seem much younger than her age, all features Clary had—minus the curves—yet didn't pull off near as well. She could understand how men would want her mother, how they would do whatever it took to be with her, but what was Jocelyn's excuse? She had a good-looking husband and children at home. What was she looking for elsewhere?

"I'm sorry I missed your birthday yesterday," she said, and Clary had to hand it to her that she actually sounded sincere, though Jocelyn always _sounded_ sincere.

Clary wanted to ask her if she really meant it. If she really was sorry. But she didn't. Instead, she placated her. It was just easier that way. "It's fine. The day sucked anyway. You didn't miss anything important."

Jocelyn met Clary's gaze, and for just that moment, Clary felt herself slip into the thought process of a younger child, of how she wanted her mother, how she needed her. But she quickly shoved that thought down.

"It was your sixteenth birthday. Of course it was important."

"Age is just a number, Mom. I don't care."

Her mother smiled, small and sad. "Well, I brought you something." From behind her back, Jocelyn presented Clary with a Hostess cupcake, a lit candle stuck in the top. Just the sight of it made Clary's stomach lurch in hunger, and in something else, something entirely unpleasant.

_Oh, no,_ she thought as her stomach tightened more. She swallowed rapidly against the rising sick feeling.

Her mother's face fell as she took in Clary's. "I know it's not much, but I didn't have time to bake anything—"

"It's not that . . ." Clary tried to think of something to get her mom to leave, and to take that cupcake with her. "I just . . . I need to use the bathroom." She swallowed hard once more, willing her mother to just go.

"Oh," Jocelyn said. "Okay, uh, I'll just be downstairs, then."

Clary nodded, her stomach roiling and hands clenching under her covers. _Please leave_, was all she could think. Jocelyn smiled and leaned over to kiss Clary's forehead. The scent of her perfume assaulted Clary's nostrils and the urge to puke rose with a vengeance. She held her breath and managed a small smile back as Jocelyn walked toward the door. Clary's stomach lurched when her mother's hand twisted the knob, but she held back until the door shut with a soft click behind Jocelyn's back.

Clary hurtled to her feet and raced into her adjoining bath, just reaching the toilet as she lost the tenuous hold she had and retched. Nothing came up, but her guts clenched so tight tears sprung to her eyes. Over and over again she heaved, dry and painful. Tears streamed down her face and she thought she might die if it didn't end soon. Her entire body shook with exhaustion, and sweat beaded across her forehead. The muscles in her back ached as they held her perched over the bowl, and her stomach hurt so much she wondered if it had torn apart inside her.

Finally after what seemed like an eternity, the nausea backed off, leaving Clary soaked in sweat and panting. Her forehead rested against the cool porcelain tank, her eyes closed. The beat of her heart crashed against her ribs, slowing minutely as time passed. After a few minutes, she stood shakily to her feet, her fingers gripped around the edges of the sink. Turning the water all the way to cold, she slipped her hand underneath and collected a palmful of cold liquid, drawing it to her mouth. She swished it around inside before spitting it back into the sink. She placed both hands under the stream and brought them up to her face, splashing the water over her forehead and cheeks, washing the sweat away.

Clary raised her eyes to her reflection, disgusted by what stared back at her. Red splotches covered her cheeks, neck, and upper chest. Her skin was so pale the reddish freckles covering her skin stood out like speckles of paint splattered over a white canvas. The green of her eyes was dull and her hair was limp. She looked like utter crap. Her stomach rumbled again, but this time in hunger.

"Jesus, make up your mind," she admonished the stupid organ. It growled at her again, letting her know that this time, it was positive it wanted food. She groaned and turned toward the door, when a bout of dizziness washed over her. "Whoa."

Clary sank to the ground and leaned her back against the side of the tub, the coolness refreshing her heated skin. She closed her eyes and took in several deep breaths. It only took a few moments for the dizziness to pass. When she opened her eyes, they focused on the closed bathroom door, and a different sort of dizziness took over.

_"Shhhh," a whispered voice sounded in her ear, "we've got to be quiet. We're not supposed to be upstairs."_

Clary blinked against the vision, her head spinning, but not like it had moments before. More like when she'd had too much to drink . . .

_The stairs wavered before Clary's eyes, and when she tried to step, she tripped, only the hands at her waist and her own on the steps saving her face from planting itself into the staircase. A loud giggle, followed by a snort, burst from her lips. A hand worked its way around to her mouth, clamping over it gently. _

_"That's not quiet," the voice said again, close to her ear. _

_Clary grinned under the hand and drew back her lips, nipping lightly at the fleshy palm. It drew away and she felt a pinch at her side._

_"Bad girl. Come on." The hands at her waist hauled her up, and somehow she made it to the top of the stairs._

_The hands steered her toward a door on the left and led her inside. She nearly fell, the room spinning in front of her, before the hands helped her to sit on the edge of the tub. Something wet dripped from her hand. Frowning, she looked down and watched through wavering vision as a red drop fell from her finger. She brought it up to her face, mesmerized by how bright the color was and how it curved around the base of her finger before falling to the floor below._

_"Okay, let me see that."_

_The hands were back, taking hers inside them and bringing it up to a face. Clary blinked in an effort to focus. After a few seconds, the face materialized: sharp, masculine features, stubbled jaw, gold eyes, and hair that hung in messy, golden curls. Clary smiled as the boy concentrated on whatever he was doing to her hand. She leaned forward and giggled again._

_"You're pretty," she said._

_The boy chuckled, and she liked the sound of it: rough, low, sexy. "Mmhmm," he said. "Hold still before you get blood all over both of us."_

_She bit her lip and grinned, lifting her other hand to twirl one of his curls around her finger. "I like your hair. So soft," she leaned in and breathed him in: spicy yet warm. So boyish. "Mmm, you smell good too."_

_"And I thought I was drunk," the boy muttered._

_"You're drunk? Am I drunk? I don't feel drunk." Didn't she? No, she felt awesome—she wondered if he felt awesome too. She reached out and touched him, her hand spread across the plane of his chest, muscles apparent through the thin t-shirt. "You don't feel drunk. You feel good." Her hand slid over his pecs and down to his abs. "You're so hard."_

_This time the boy burst out laughing. Clary wanted to hear more. She smiled._

_"Which is precisely why we should get out of here."_

_She pouted. "What if I don't want to go?" She wrapped her arms around his neck, and looked him in the eye. "What if I want to stay here with you?" Clary watched his throat bob as he swallowed. His eyes darted to the door, and his breath faltered. She bit her lip again and leaned into him. "Do you want to stay with me?"_

_He stared at her, those gold eyes so intense and burning. _

_"We should go." He stood and pulled Clary to her feet. _

_She stumbled and he stumbled a little too, both of them tangling together until Clary's back hit the bathroom door and he was pressed into her, everything aligning: legs, hips, chests. Clary felt his breath at her neck and his hand at her hip, the other flat against the door beside her head. He started to back away, and she reached out, her fingers catching the front pockets of his jeans and pulling him back to her. The boy froze, his grip tightening at her hip._

_Clary turned her face toward where his was hidden in her neck, burying her nose in his hair as she whispered, "I don't want to go. I want to stay."_

_She felt him move, and something hot spread over the nape of her neck: lips, breath, kisses searing into her and spreading through her like flame. When they reached her ear, the breaths took shape and formed the words that would ensnare her, that would make her his._

_"I want to stay too." Another kiss, just behind her ear. "God, I want you."_

Clary groaned as another wave of nausea washed over her. "God, I _am_ a slut!" she said to herself, managing to just make it back to the toilet as she heaved again.

Several minutes later Clary managed to get herself together, brush her teeth, pull her hair into double, low ponytails, and dress in a pair of yoga pants and a soft t-shirt. Her stomach protested with hunger once more, and no matter how much Clary didn't want a repeat of the retching, she knew she needed to eat.

The kitchen was empty when she entered. Thankful, she rummaged through the pantry, looking for anything that wouldn't make her stomach stage another revolt. She grabbed several breakfast bars and made to go into the living room, when she heard voices.

"Sure, Jocelyn, spend another night with him."

"It's not like that, Valentine, and you know it. We're only friends."

The sound of something dropping echoed into the hall. "Just how long are you going to tell yourself that? How long will it take before you start to believe your own lies? Does it make you feel better?"

Clary's mother sighed loudly. "This is my job. I have to be in the city. You're the one who refuses to move, too obsessed with this damn town to do anything other than stew here."

Her father's voice rose. "Don't put this on me, Jocelyn! We all know it's not your work that draws you there."

"This is ridiculous," Jocelyn said. "I'm not having this argument again. I need to get back."

"Then just go!" Valentine yelled. "No one's stopping you."

Clary squeezed her eyes shut and leaned her back against the hall wall. They were at it again. This is how it always was when her mother bothered to show up, which had been less and less as the months passed. Not wanting to hear any more of the argument ensuing in the other room, Clary spun and started back to the kitchen.

When she stepped into the room, she moved to the back door, slipped on her shoes, and grabbed her backpack from the hook closest to the door. More yelling and slamming filtered in from the front of the house, and Clary wrenched open the door, the objects in her pack clanking together as she flew down the stairs.

There was only one place she could disappear. One place in this whole God-forsaken world where she could go and forget about it all. Jace, her parents, the thing growing inside her. And today, she wanted nothing more than to forget.

.o.O.o.

"Ten more, son," Jace's father called. "Center circle, no board."

Jace groaned and gripped the football in his hand. His fingers aligned with the laces, and he took a few steps back, his eyes on the center cutout of his passing target. The entire morning had been a series of throwing drills, each one more brutal than the last. Jace's arm ached like it had never ached before. Sweat poured over his face and into his eyes, but he'd had yet to remove his sweatshirt. The last thing he needed was for his father to see his shoulder and make more of a big deal out of his ridiculous rivalry with Valentine Morgenstern.

With his eye still on the target, Jace grit his teeth and pulled his arm back, the movement making him want to groan in pain, then he flung the ball forward and it sailed through the air in a perfect spiral, gliding through the space in the middle without touching any of the sides. He let out a breath of relief, grabbed another ball, and set up to do it again. After he'd managed the set of ten, he braced himself for the next round of torturous passes. To his surprise, his father blew his whistle and started out toward where Jace stood on the field.

"I think that's enough for today." His father's eyes were on him. "That was much better. It's good to know your talent hasn't been lost completely." He reached up and slapped Jace hard on the back in a gesture of a job well done.

Jace closed his eyes and held in the whimper threatening to leave his lips at the pain radiating through his shoulder.

His father peered down at his watch, then up at the sun-filled sky. The temperature was surprisingly warm for a late fall day. "Finish up with five miles and then take the rest of the day to do whatever. Just be sure to be home by six. I got a call from one of the scouts and he'd like to meet with us this evening. Don't be late."

Jace nodded and leaned over to fetch his water bottle, squirting some into his mouth and the rest onto his head. This was old hat by now. Any time scouts watched him play, at least one always wanted to meet to discuss the merits of Jace playing for their school.

His father patted Jace's back once more, softer this time. "Nice work today, son."

"Thanks."

"I expect to see this kind of dedication on the field on Friday."

"Yes, sir."

His father gave him a small smile and turned to make his way off the field. Jace closed his eyes and rotated his shoulder, biting his lip against the ache. After another drink, Jace tucked the sport bottle into the strap around his waist and started his jog toward the opposite side of the field.

Some may have thought the run after such an intense practice was overkill, but this was actually Jace's favorite part. He loved the feel of the pavement under his feet, the wind against his face, the way the scenery going by helped to clear his mind. God knew he had enough cluttering it at the moment. But there was something inside of him, something unsettled and foreign that he knew only one way to get rid of.

He needed to see her.

Veering off his normal course, Jace ran a few blocks south, then took the curve along the river until he came to the large iron gates. He paused in front of them, taking in the angelic statues situated to either side of the opening. The gates were open and several grounds keepers were walking around, tending to the grass and trees throughout the area. Jace didn't come here often, and it made him feel like shit. But this wasn't something he could handle on a daily basis. He preferred to forget, to push it aside and focus on his day to day life. But today he needed her, maybe more than he'd ever needed her before.

Jace took the front path, his eyes straight ahead and not focusing on the stones he passed. There was only one he needed.

As he ran along, the trees grew thicker and larger, leading to an older section of the cemetery. Overhead, branches reached across and formed a thick canopy above the trail. It was quieter back here, the work of the keepers already done for the day. Jace took a left and quickly came to the back, just before the oldest part of the graveyard. The low stone wall which surrounded the ancient graves rose up in front of him, but a few rows before he got to it, he turned right and stopped in the middle.

The stone before him was a large, rose colored marble with the form of a dove carved in the upper quarter. Jace bent at the waist and brushed his hand along the top of the headstone, his fingers dislodging old, crusted leaves from ledge, before crouching down in front. He took in a few deep breaths and swiped his sweatshirt covered arm over his sweaty face. When he lowered it, his eyes fixed on the letters sprawling across the stone.

_Celine Herondale Wayland_

Jace ran a hand through his hair and sat on the ground, wrapping his arms loosely around his raised knees.

"Hey, Mom," he said, feeling kind of stupid for talking to her like she was there in front of him. But no one was around, so it wasn't like anyone would hear anyway.

"I'm sorry I haven't been by in awhile, I just . . . I've been kind of busy with football and . . ." Jace looked away and squinted into the sun. His eyes stung in the brightness, and he felt like a major asshole, lying to the dead. He bit his lower lip and shook his head before looking back. "I'm full of shit. I haven't been here because I didn't want to come. It's . . . It's hard for me, Mom. Being here. Seeing your name on this rock. Even after five years it's hard. But I . . . but I don't know what else to do right now. I don't know who else to tell." His voice broke and he cleared his throat, pressing the heels of his hands into his stinging eyes. "Shit. I screwed up, Mom. I screwed up bad, and I don't know what to do." He raised his gaze back to the headstone, and implored it to answer. "What the hell do I do?"

.o.O.o.

Clary stood back from the wall, her head tilting from side to side, as she took in the mess of color. She groaned and threw her paintbrush to the ground. A mess was right. There was none of the usual light, none of the beauty. This was not at all what she'd had in mind when she'd come out here today.

The ancient stone wall of the old cemetery had become something of a project for Clary over the last couple of years. The head groundskeeper, Hodge, looked the other way anytime she wanted to paint murals on the inside of the wall. He stated that no one came there anyway, no one brought flowers or visited since most of the inhabitants of this section of the cemetery died in the early 1800's, and figured the dead might like something nice to look at, too. So, Clary tried her best to honor them, painting only things of beauty that any wandering soul may find joy looking at. But this . . . this was not beautiful. It was dark and hideous.

The background of this section was entirely black, with swirls of red, purple, blue, and gray twisting and blending together like some sort of cyclone or black hole. It was ugly and angry and . . . crap. The people buried here did not deserve this. With a sigh, Clary bent to pick up her brush and start over, when something plowed into her from the side. She let out a gasp and reached out to catch her fall, but it never came. Arms grasped her around the middle and tugged her upright.

"We really should stop running into each other like this," a familiar voice said.

Clary felt that voice shimmy down her spine and pool into her belly. She jerked herself out of the arms holding her and turned, finding herself face to face with Jace Wayland, for the second day in a row. The sight of him caused her heart to drop and a flood of remembered sensations to wash over her. Gripping hands, soft lips, warm breath. Clary clenched her fists and dug her nails into her palms in an effort to keep her thoughts clean. He was dressed in shorts and a hooded sweatshirt, his face and hair dripping with sweat. And she hated the fact that even now, sweaty and disgusting as he was, and after all the things that had transpired between them, he still looked good enough to eat.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded, then narrowed her eyes. "Are you following me?"

"Yes. I've made it my mission in life to follow you around and slam into you while your back is turned." He swiped his arm over his face, his sleeve turning darker from the perspiration. "Do you have a problem with that?"

Clary rolled her eyes and turned away, bending to gather her supplies. Maybe if she ignored him he'd just go away. She did not feel like a rehash of last night. She didn't want to talk about anything, didn't want to think about anything. That's why she'd come here in the first place, to escape the tragedy that was her life.

"What are you doing?" Jace asked, taking a few steps closer to her, obviously not getting that the rolling of eyes and the turning of back meant "get lost". The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end when she felt his arm swipe hers.

"Trying to evoke the spirits of the dead to help me ponder the world's riddles, why? What do you think I'm doing?" She picked up her brush and walked back to the wall, swirling the bristles through the splotch of red and blending it with the blue, making purple.

"Well, I don't think you have the right supplies, if that was your intention. Might I suggest some specific occult items you may need?"

Clary sighed and turned to face him, because obviously he was not going to leave. "What do you want, Jace? Don't you think we said what we needed to say last night?"

He eyed her carefully, and the way he did made Clary's stomach flip. He really was a beautiful boy. "Do you? You don't think we should, I don't know, discuss this . . . predicament?" Jace gestured to her midsection.

She crossed her arms over herself. "Oh, you mean the fact that you knocked me up?"

"Christ," Jace muttered under his breath. "Yes, that." He lifted his hand to his hair and pulled at it.

"What's there to talk about?" She shrugged and turned away. "Talking isn't going to change it."

Jace let out a sound of exasperation and moved up beside her. Clary could smell the scent of sweat and wind coming from his skin, could feel the warmth of him even though he stood a foot away. "I know that, but what are you—what are we going to do?"

She glanced up at him, and he was looking back at her, eyes pleading for answers. "We don't have to do anything."

"What are you talking about? How can we just do nothing—"

"I said _we_ didn't have to do anything. You don't need to do anything. Not that I expected anything from you anyway. That's not why I told you."

Anger flashed in his eyes. "Then why did you tell me?"

"Because I was pissed that you called me a slut and it just slipped out."

"Jesus Christ, I did not call you a slut!"

"Whatever." She went to put her brush back to the wall.

"No, not 'whatever,' damn it." Jace grabbed her arm and twisted her so she had no choice but to look at him. "I wasn't calling you a slut. I don't think you're a slut."

His gaze held hers, and Clary swallowed hard. "Then why'd you say that? Like you just assumed I'd been with other guys, and that what happened between us wouldn't be a big deal to me?"

"Because . . ." He shook his head and ran his hands over his face. "Because I guess I just needed it to not be, okay? I needed for you to keep quiet about it."

"Why? Because I'm a Morgenstern?" Clary heard the venom in her voice, but she couldn't help it. The stupid rivalry pissed her off. Jace pissed her off for giving a crap about it in the first place.

"No," he answered. "Not that that doesn't complicate things."

Clary huffed and turned away, but Jace stepped in front of her.

"Just leave me alone, Jace."

"No," he said, his voice strong, and then it softened. "No. I just—I need you to understand."

"I get it, all right? I totally understand. Now are we done?" She tried to move around him again, but he still blocked her way.

"Not until we talk about this. Properly."

Clary let out a frustrated growl and yanked at the ends of her ponytails. "What do we need to talk about?"

"What _don't_ we have to talk about? You can't just spring something like this on a guy and not expect him to want to know what's going on. At least you can't with me. Do you even know what _you_ want to do?" His voice broke with the last word, and she could tell by how wide his eyes were and how his bottom lip trembled as he spoke how freaked out he really was.

"Not really." She closed her eyes briefly before opening them once more. "But I don't think I can get an . . . an . . ." The word was stuck in her throat.

"An abortion?" Jace asked, his gaze on the ground.

Clary nodded even though he wasn't looking at her. "Yeah." When Jace didn't answer, she asked, "Are you okay with that?"

"Are you asking because I have a choice, or just to make me think I do?"

"Neither. I'm asking because I want to know."

Jace sighed and walked over to the wall, resting his hands on the top and looking out at the rest of the cemetery. "I'm not 'okay' with any of this, but I'm not_ not_ okay with that, either."

Clary moved up beside him and leaned her back against the wall. In that moment they were both so static, so silent. The wind picked up, rustling the leaves a little louder, and blew a couple of strands of her hair into her face. She tucked them behind her ear, and at the same time, caught another glimpse of Jace from the corner of her eye. He was standing very close and very still, his eyes trained on the distance. Part of her wanted to continue to look at him, to understand what had happened between the two of them that night. He was gorgeous. Way too gorgeous for her. Not a single part of her was able to comprehend how a guy who looked like that, could have ever looked at her. It seemed ironic that the one time one did, she couldn't remember. What was also ironic was the fact that he was a Wayland—the offspring of her father's most hated enemy. Of all people . . . Suddenly that thought was very funny, and she laughed out loud at it.

He glanced over at her. "What's so funny?"

She shook her head. "Nothing."

He frowned.

"Well, I just had this thought," she laughed again—a sort of weak, defeated laugh, "This kid is going to be half Morgenstern and half Wayland. Our dads are going to have a fit."

"Shit." Jace grimaced and placed his hand over his stomach. "That's not funny at all. I think I'm getting an ulcer."

Clary shrugged her shoulders before letting her gaze drift over to the mural she'd been working on prior to Jace's arrival. The numbness, the emptiness it portrayed was so spot on right then. There was nothing in her life that made sense, especially not what happened between her and Jace, or the thing they created together. Everything was so screwed up, and she had no idea how to find her way back to the way things were before. _Way_ before. She closed her eyes and lifted her face to the sky, feeling the breeze wash over her face.

When she opened them again, she noticed Jace staring down at the wall, his brows furrowed. "What exactly is this?" he asked, and pointed at the mural.

"It's a painting. You know, maybe you should reconsider this whole football thing. I think you're losing a few too many brain cells being pummeled like that week after week."

Jace raised a brow. "Sarcasm . . . Is that supposed to deter me?"

"Is it working?"

"Not on your life." He paused. "So what is it really? The painting."

Clary glanced back over at the section of the wall she'd pretty much destroyed earlier. The colors were even more drab, even more depressing as they dried. Clary wrapped a paint splattered hand around one of her ponytails and sighed. "My soul."

"You think your soul looks like that?"

To her surprise, she answered him honestly, "Sometimes it feels that way."

Jace didn't speak for what felt like forever, and then, very quietly, he said, "I'm sorry. For hurting you. For . . . for everything. I know it's not enough, it'll never be enough, but I'm sorry."

Clary's heart nearly stopped. He was saying he was sorry. Jace Wayland wasn't supposed to say he was sorry. He was supposed to be an asshole, the one she could hate, could blame. That's what she needed him to be. It didn't matter that in her memory that morning she had been the aggressor. That _she_ had pulled _him_ into her. That _she_ had asked _him_ to stay. She needed to hate him, needed that to make any of this make sense, but he wasn't going to afford her that luxury. At least not now.

She wondered what Jace was thinking, about this, about everything, about her. But her pride would not let her ask. She couldn't care about him—his thoughts, his feelings—in any way, not if she was going to get through this intact. Clary let out a sigh. All of this just seemed like a bad dream she couldn't wake up from.

After another minute, the confusion became too much. She needed to be alone to think, to sort through the mess that was her mind. Clary pushed away from the wall. "Well, I should probably . . ." She waved her hand toward her paint supplies.

Jace stood there for a moment, almost as if he didn't quite know what to do himself, his hands hanging loosely at his sides and his eyes roving between her and the wall. "Yeah, okay. I'll just . . ." he gestured to the path leading out of the old cemetery into the new.

It seemed like there should be so much more to say, and Clary knew there was, but her tongue was tied, dead weight inside her mouth. Maybe when she had more time to process everything . . . She looked at Jace, taking in the way his damp hair curled more as it dried, and the wide, open look in his eyes, and she couldn't imagine ever being able to speak freely to him.

He took a few steps backward and something inside Clary itched to stop him, but she didn't. She couldn't. It didn't matter how strong the feeling grew, her pride was even stronger. She had to look away, she just had to, but just as she turned, he spoke:

"You know, we don't have to be like them."

She glanced back and found him standing at the opening of the wall, his hands now shoved into the pockets of his sweatshirt and his gaze focused on her.

"Our dads," he clarified. "We don't have to hate each other like them."

Clary bit her lip and drew in a shuddering breath.

Jace gave her a very small smile, one that barely even tweaked his lips, before he turned and started away.

Unease grew in Clary's chest, and even though she was still confused, still a little angry, she found she couldn't let him leave. Not like that. "Jace," she called, before she could talk herself out of it.

He stopped, his shoulders stiffening before he looked back. "Yeah?"

She stood there, shifting from one foot to the next for a few seconds, wondering what in the world she was doing. Their eyes locked, and there was nothing she could do to stop the words from spilling from her lips. "I don't hate you."

He shook his head and peered up at her from a few locks of hair that had fallen into his eyes. "Well, that's a start at least." And with the dangerous smirk Clary was pretty sure had played a big part in getting her into this mess in the first place, he turned and jogged toward the front of the cemetery.

Clary watched his back grow smaller and smaller the further he moved away, and the same unease pressed on her chest. She didn't understand any of this: the way her body was revolting against her, or how her brain swam with fragments of sensations that only served to confuse her more.

But most of all, she couldn't make any sense at all of how she felt about Jace Wayland.

* * *

><p><em>Oh, poor, confused, prideful, messed up Clary. However is she going to wrap her head around what's happening and who this beautiful stranger is? I just have no idea… ;)<em>

_I know some are probably getting impatient for more interaction between Jace and Clary, it's coming. I promise. I just don't like to rush stuff—though even I am having a hard time with that! I want them together too._

_Until next time, XOXO ~ddpjclaf_


	7. Doesn't it Make You Crazy?

******The character names of The Mortal Instruments are owned by Cassandra Clare. The original content, ideas and intellectual property of this story are owned by ddpjclaf, 2011. Please do not copy, reproduce, or translate without express written permission.******

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Seven – "Doesn't it Make You Crazy?"<strong>

_On we go…_

_Thank you to Lightlacedwithbeauty for editing this! *muah*_

_Chapter songs:_

_**23 – Jimmy Eat World_

_**I Dare You to Move – Switchfoot_

_**Thinking About You – Puddle of Mudd_

* * *

><p>Two weeks. Two God-damned weeks and she hadn't called. Jace had never had this problem before. Girls always called. Always.<p>

He slouched in his chair, his legs apart and stretched in front of him, as he stared out the window and twirled a pen in his hand. The teacher droned on and on about some sort of scientific shit Jace couldn't care less about—though needed to know for the upcoming exam—but all he could do was obsess. Why hadn't she called? He thought they'd left things on at least a somewhat positive note in the cemetery. Sure, she'd still been hesitant, but she said she didn't hate him. So, why didn't she call?

Shit. He was being such a girl. But it was all he could do to not track her down himself, and he knew how stupid that would be considering who she was. But, damn it! This shit wasn't right. Didn't she know how damn insane this was making him?

He couldn't seem to get her out of his head. The way she'd wrapped her paint covered hands around her hair, the way her green eyes lightened, then clouded, over and over again as if they couldn't make up their mind. She looked at him like she wanted to kill him, and then like she just might like to kiss him. Yeah, the pregnancy scared the shit out of him, but it didn't feel quite real to him yet. She did. She felt so damn real. Especially in the images from the party: her dancing in front of him, then over him, then her hot mouth on his.

Jesus.

Jace fidgeted in his seat, earning him a questioning look from Sebastian who sat in the desk next to him. He flipped Sebastian the bird under his desk, and Sebastian smirked in return. His friend had definitely noticed something was up. They spent enough time together, what with practice and games and pretty much every other spare moment. Well, at least when Seb wasn't hanging with Isabelle, which had been a lot more lately. During those times, Jace tried to make himself scarce. The girl still looked at him like she wanted to hang him by his balls. But on the other hand, she was the only source of information he had on Clary, so sometimes, he risked his manhood to talk to her.

He hadn't learned much, mostly just that she was as well as could be expected, and that she hadn't told anyone else. Which he'd pretty much gathered since his dick was still attached to his body. And he sure as hell hadn't said anything to anyone. He wasn't stupid. But Isabelle never said whether or not Clary talked about him, about that night, and he wasn't that much of an asshole to ask. But he couldn't ignore the fact that not knowing what she thought bugged the shit out of him.

The bell rang, jarring Jace out of his thoughts, and he stood, gathering the book and notepad he hadn't bothered to open. Shit. Hopefully Sebastian took notes that he could borrow. Jace glanced over at his friend, who was still sitting at his desk, staring off into space. Yeah, fat chance at that. Jace guessed there was always Kaelie . . . His gaze wandered to where she stood at the front of the class, her body swathed in clothes about three sizes too tight. She caught his eye and smirked. Hell. He had no idea what she'd want in return for a "favor", but he knew it'd be something.

A groan tried to work its way up his throat, but he managed to hold it back as he moved up the row to the front. He had to keep his grades up or football was out of the question.

"Hey, Kaelie," he said, when he reached her.

She glanced up at him and bit her bottom lip, while sitting down on the top of her desk. "Hey, gorgeous."

God, she was annoying. What the hell had he ever seen in her? Oh, right, she was hot and she put out.

"So, listen." Jace lifted a hand to rub the back of his neck. "I kind of spaced during class—you know how I get on game days—anyway, I was wondering if I could borrow your notes? I'll give them back after study hall."

"Hmm," she hummed. "Jace Wayland needs a favor from me?" She stood, tracing her finger up his arm, over his shoulder, to his jaw. She stopped at his chin and held him there. "What do I get in return?"

Jace clenched his teeth in an effort not to say anything rude. "What do you want?"

"Well," she licked her lips and held the tip of her tongue to the top one, "what I want I'm pretty sure I can't have." She tapped her finger against her mouth.

Jace rolled his eyes. So, they'd dated, they'd screwed, but couldn't she tell he wasn't interested anymore? Did she have no damn pride?

Kaelie's eyes brightened. "Tell you what. I'll give you my notes, for . . ." She grinned and leaned into him, until Jace could feel her breath at his ear. "A kiss."

Jace pulled back, his brows raised in surprise. "That's it? What's the catch?"

"No catch. Just a kiss."

Jace glanced toward the front of the room where Mr. Sinclair was writing more boring shit on the board, then back at Kaelie. A kiss was nothing. Hell, he'd kissed her more times than he could count, more times than he wanted to count. "Fine." He leaned in, but Kaelie stopped him with one manicured finger to the lips.

"Ah, ah, ah. Not yet, lover boy."

"Kaelie, quite screwing around. Do you want it or not?"

"Oh, I want it." She grinned. "Just . . . later."

"But I wanted to copy the notes next period."

Kaelie held out her notebook, and Jace went to take it from her hand, but she tightened her grip. "You can have these now," she said, "in exchange for your word."

Jace frowned. What the hell kind of game was she playing?

"I want you to promise that you'll deliver on your end, when I want, no questions asked."

"Fine." He grabbed for the notebook again, but she still held tight.

"Promise," she said. "I need you to say the words, because I know you never break a promise."

"Damn it, Kaelie—"

"Promise, Jace." Her light eyes went dark. "Promise or the deal's off and you can kiss your grade and football goodbye."

"Whatever. I can just get notes from someone else," he said, and prepared to leave.

"Sure. You could do that," Kaelie said. "But you know I'm very thorough—in taking notes. You won't find better."

Shit. She was right. Kaelie was actually pretty smart for how stupid she looked. "Jesus Christ, fine, I promise, okay?"

"You promise what?" She dangled the notebook in front of him.

"I promise I'll kiss you when you want, no questions asked."

The menacing look left her face as quickly as it had come, and she released the notebook. "There. Was that so hard?" Kaelie wrapped her hand around his arm and pulled Jaced into her. "I look forward to getting my payout."

Jace shook her off. "Yeah, yeah, thanks."

"Anytime." A sly grin crossed her lips, before she drew the bottom one between her teeth, turned, and wiggled her fingers at him over her shoulder.

Jace stood in his spot, watching her go and thinking to himself that he'd probably just made a really stupid deal with a really evil bitch.

.o.O.o.

_Clary had never felt like this before. Like her skin was on fire, her body wound so tight she was afraid she might snap. Like she might die if he didn't kiss her again. The hand he held at her hip inched up her side until the tips of his fingers swiped the bare skin at her waist. Clary's head fell back against the door, her neck tingling with the heat of his breath._

_ He was too far away, even right up against her—his knee between her legs, his hips rocking against hers, his tongue tracing her collar bone—he was too far. She wanted him filling her, overcoming her. She tugged at his shirt, pulling him harder against her, but it was as if trying to bring him closer just pushed him further away, like there was something between them, something holding him back._

_ Clary pulled once more, and again the space between them grew. She could no longer feel his breath at her neck, could no longer make out the whisper of his lips on her skin. When she realized her eyes were closed, she opened them and found him still in front of her, his head lowered and eyes staring down at their feet. She reached out and ran her hand along his face and up into his hair. Strangely, it was as if she was touching air. There was no tickling softness as the strands ran through her fingers._

_ "Why are you so far away?" she asked, her voice sounding muted and hollow, but she didn't stop to ask herself why._

_ He looked up and his gold eyes met hers. "I'm right here," he said._

_ "But you're not touching me. Why won't you touch me?"_

_ Jace frowned. "I am touching you. Can't you feel it?" He glanced back down at her feet._

_ Clary followed his gaze and a gasp fell from her lips as she focused on what he was looking at. Between them, her stomach protruded slightly, and his hands were cupped around the bulge. Her breath caught in her throat, and as he moved his fingers over her, the lump grew, slowly yet quickly, the strain pressing against her ribs and making it hard to breathe._

_ "W—what are you doing? Stop! Make it stop!" she cried._

_ "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm so sorry."_

_ Clary ripped his hands from her abdomen, but it was too late. Her stomach continued to grow, her shirt stretching until the expanse of her was so large the fabric ripped. Pain seared over the hump as jagged red lines raced across her flesh, almost like bolts of lightning tearing through the sky. Her skin was so tight, so hot._

_ "Oh, God." Tears flowed over her cheeks. "What did you do to me?"_

_ Resounding silence pierced her ears. Clary looked up and found she was alone._

_ "Jace?" she tried to call out, but there was nothing except breath, breath and darkness and solitude._

_ He'd left her. He'd done this to her, and now he'd left her to deal with it alone._

_ "Jace!" she tried again, this time louder, but the name came out mostly as a garbled cry._

_ "Clary?"_

_ She turned toward the sound and furrowed her brows when no one was there. _

_ "Clary?"_

_ Still nothing._

_ "Clary!"_

A sharp pain radiated through her arm and Clary's head shot up. It took her a moment to recognize the shapes around her. Light and color and familiar faces came into focus. She blinked several times in an effort to connect what she was seeing with reality. Her hand fell to her stomach quickly, and she breathed in relief to feel it was still flat.

Oh, God. It had been a dream. Just a dream. She wanted to laugh in giddy relief, until she remembered that it wasn't a dream at all. It was reality. Her reality.

A dull ache in her arm reminded her of what had woken her. She rubbed a hand over the spot and glanced to her right. Dark, bespectacled eyes caught hers. At first she felt like she used to when she looked into those eyes: safe, comfortable, right. And then she remembered all the reasons she why she couldn't feel that way anymore.

With her hand cupped over her bruising arm, she narrowed her eyes in her ex-best friend's direction. "Did you just elbow me?"

"You were snoring," Simon said, and ran a hand through his dark hair, making it stick up even more than it had been. "It was distracting." His eyes darted to the front of the room where their teacher stood at the board writing out some sort of equation Clary was supposed to understand, then moved back to hers. "Plus, you were starting to talk."

Clary's face heated. "What did I say?"

Simon shrugged. "I don't know. I try not to pay attention to anything you say, Clary—since it's mostly just lies anyway."

The shrill sound of the bell cut into his sentence, but Clary heard it all. All the words he said and all the ones he didn't. Simon stood and gathered his books, looking for all the world like he wished she'd burst into flames right there. Just before he turned to leave, he met her gaze once more. There was so much hurt, so much regret in his eyes that it took everything Clary had not to look away.

"I hope this Chase or Jason or Jace you were dreaming about will make you happy," he said. "Because God knows no one else can."

"Simon," Clary called to his back, but he didn't stop. She groaned and lifted her hand to her forehead.

He was never going to forgive her. It had been three months since they'd broken up, and he still wouldn't talk her.

"Well, that looked pleasant." Isabelle dropped her books onto the table beside Clary's and plopped into Simon's vacated seat. "He still nursing that broken heart?"

Clary lifted her head and scrubbed her hands over her face. "I guess. Either that or he's just moved on to hating me completely. Not that I blame him, really."

"Don't beat yourself up. You did the right thing. It wasn't fair to him anyway. He should be happy you cut him loose. There's nothing sadder than unrequited love."

Clary nodded, knowing it was true, but in this case, truth may not have been the best policy. Her inability to love Simon the way he loved her had lost her her best friend. So many nights she'd stayed awake staring at the shadows dancing across her ceiling wondering why she couldn't. He was a wonderful guy: funny, cute, and he knew her better than anyone in the world. Definitely better than Isabelle, and maybe even better than she knew herself. But it hadn't been enough.

She'd tried. She'd tried so hard. But kissing Simon had been like kissing her brother. She just couldn't do it. Calling it off had been the only thing she could do, but it had cost her everything.

"Come on." Isabelle grabbed Clary's arm and pulled her to her feet. "We're going to be late."

Clary gathered her things and slung her bag over her shoulder. "Late for what?" She smothered a yawn.

"For the weekend, duh." Isabelle grinned. "No game tonight, so that means we have the whole weekend to get ourselves into all kinds of mischief."

As Clary followed Isabelle into the hall, she felt her body protest against even that simple movement. She'd been so tired lately, her eyes falling shut and dragging her into sleep even when she tried to force them not to. It seemed like she had no control over herself at all anymore. Just the thought of participating in one of Isabelle's "mischief" filled weekends made Clary want to cry.

"I don't know, Iz. I'm just . . . I don't know if I'm up to it."

Isabelle frowned. "Still getting sick a lot?"

"Every morning like clockwork. Sometimes even during the day. It's awesome."

Ever since she'd woken up the morning after her birthday two weeks ago, every day was the same: wake up abruptly after maybe three hours of sleep, rush to the bathroom to puke, be so ravenously hungry she had to stuff her face until she felt like puking again, go to school, puke at least once more, starve again, fall asleep after lunch, try not to cry during the eight million times a day she felt like it, drag herself to cheerleading practice, go home, try to sleep, etc, etc, rinse, repeat.

Isabelle pushed open the double doors leading to the parking lot and cool wind swirled around them, causing Clary to clutch her jacket tighter. She really should get out her winter coat.

"So, no partying this weekend, huh?" Isabelle asked when they reached her car.

Clary climbed inside and threw her bag in the back. "No. Sorry. I'm just . . . I don't really feel like it."

"It's okay." Isabelle started the car and backed out of the parking space. "We can just rent movies or something. Have a girl's night."

"Iz, you don't have to do that. You seemed excited about that party tonight. You should go."

Isabelle grimaced and looked out the window as she merged with traffic.

"What?" Clary asked.

"Nothing."

"Iz, what?"

Isabelle sighed and flipped on her blinker. "It just feels weird, you know?"

"Why?"

"Because Seb's _his_ best friend, so I . . . I see him a lot."

Clary swallowed and peered out the side window. Dark clouds gathered to the south and she wondered if it might rain. The subject of Jace had been pretty taboo between the two girls since the night Clary had told him she was pregnant. She knew Isabelle had been hanging around with Sebastian Verlac quite a bit for the past few weeks, and she also knew that meant she'd see Jace. She tried not to let that bother her. It wasn't fair to Izzy if it did. But she couldn't help the strange tightening in her chest every time Jace Wayland came up.

"So what?"

"So . . . it's just . . . it's weird."

"You said that already."

"Come on, Clary. You know what I mean." Isabelle pulled into Clary's driveway and turned to face her. "In my mind, Jace is your boy."

"He's_ not_ my boy. I don't even know him."

"It doesn't matter. You've . . . _been_ with him."

Clary rolled her eyes. "Izzy, that's just stupid. You've 'been with' boys before; do you consider them all yours?"

"This is different," Isabelle said quietly. "And yes, by the way."

Clary snorted. "How is this different?"

"Because you're carrying a piece of him around with you, and you will forever. That makes this really different, Clary. And when I see other girls around him . . ."

Clary clenched her jaw at the mention of other girls, which was completely ridiculous because Jace Wayland _was not_ hers. She'd meant it when she'd said that to Isabelle, but that knowledge didn't seem to stop the little kernel of jealousy from forming in her gut whenever she thought about him. "He can be with whomever he wants, Iz. We're not together."

"But . . . maybe you could be. If you'd just talk to him."

Clary growled in protest. "It doesn't matter what I say to him or what he says to me. Even if I wanted to be with him—which I don't—I couldn't be anyway. He's a Wayland, remember?"

"That's just an excuse and you know it. What's the problem? You're already knocked up, it's not like he could do that again."

Clary looked away and stared at the thickening clouds. She couldn't explain it to Isabelle, because she couldn't really explain it to herself. In the few experiences she'd had with Jace Wayland, he didn't seem to be a terrible guy, in fact, he seemed pretty okay, but . . . he was still a guy, and other than Simon, Clary didn't have a whole lot of experience with guys. She'd had a few boyfriends in the past, but each time they'd walked away—and they didn't even have a good reason. Jace Wayland had a very good reason to turn his back. And maybe that was the problem. Maybe Clary didn't want to watch him walk away, so she was walking away herself.

Isabelle's voice broke into her thoughts. "He asks about you."

"What?" Clary felt her heart pound against her ribs. "Why?"

"Why do you think?"

Clary shook her head and turned back to the window. "He's an idiot. I'm giving him a way out of all of this. Why won't he just take it?" She wanted to curse the warmth spreading across her chest and up into her cheeks.

"Because maybe he doesn't suck. Maybe he feels his responsibility in all this."

"What? Are you on his side now?" Clary scowled at her friend.

Isabelle took in a breath, held it, then let it out slowly. "No. I'm your friend, so I'm on your side. Which is why I feel it's my duty to tell you that you're being really fricken stupid right now." She shook her head. "Do you know how many girls in your situation wish the father would acknowledge he had any responsibility at all? Well, you've got one that seems to not want to make you do this alone and you refuse to even talk to him."

"I've talked to him," Clary said, crossing her arms over her chest and feeling her indignation rise.

"Yeah, twice. But you've got his number. You've had it since you found out, yet you refuse to use it. What are you so afraid of?"

Clary laughed, but it was not a happy sound. It was tortured, sarcastic, broken. "A better question would be: what am I not afraid of?" She looked back to her friend. "I'm afraid of everything. Of what's happening to me every day. Of this thing growing inside me. Of having to tell my parents when I can't hide it any more. And most of all . . ." She paused to swallow down the lump forming in her throat. "Most of all I'm scared of him. I'm scared of what I don't know. I'm scared of what I do. I'm scared of the very few things I remember about that night and about how I feel when I do. I'm scared of how I feel around him now. And I'm _terrified_ of how he looks at me, like he can tell what I'm feeling and that maybe he feels it too." She held up her hands in a helpless motion, and then dropped them to her lap. "I'm afraid to like him and watch him walk away and leave me like this. It's just easier to keep my distance."

Isabelle reached over the console and pulled Clary into a hug. Clary let her and the scent of coconut engulfed her. "You're so stupid," Isabelle repeated into Clary's hair. "But I get it." She pulled back and looked Clary in the eye. "No matter what happens with Jace or with your parents, you're not going to be alone. Okay? I'm not going to let you be alone."

Clary nodded, but wasn't so sure she believed her. How did Isabelle know what she'd do once things really started spiraling out of control? Right now, other than some puking and being unbelievably tired and starving all the time, there was nothing really happening. But soon, Clary would start to get fat and then there would be no denying what was happening. What would Isabelle do then? Would she still want to walk beside Clary in the hall? Would she still defend her? Would she still want to have "girl's night" when Clary resembled a Weeble more than a teenage girl? These were the doubts and questions that played over and over in a constant stream in her mind—along with those about Jace, her parents, the kids at school.

"I'm just gonna go home and get some supplies," Isabelle said, releasing Clary and lifting her hand when Clary tried to protest. "I've got the rest of my life for boys and parties, Clary. Tonight, it's just us."

Clary couldn't help but smile. "You're a good friend, Iz."

"Yeah," she flipped her hair over her shoulder, "I know. Now get out of my car and make sure you stock that room of yours with junk food. I feel the need for sugar."

"Okay." Clary laughed and climbed out of the car. Before closing the door, she ducked back in. "Thanks."

Isabelle grinned, winked, and saluted. "Anytime. Now get."

"Yes, ma'am." Clary slammed the door and watched as Isabelle pulled out of her driveway and squealed her tires as she raced off down the street. A spot of warmth grew in Clary's chest. Maybe things could be okay—or maybe when her parents found out, they'd kick her out onto the street and she'd have to feed off from garbage and rats to live. The idea made her puke a little in her mouth.

Pushing all thoughts of rejection and rats and garbage out of her mind, Clary walked under the brick arch that stretched over the driveway. She turned the corner and paused when she noticed an out-of-place vehicle parked outside the garage. It wasn't odd because she'd never seen it before; it was odd because it wasn't supposed to be there right now. The black F-150 belonged to her brother, Jonathan, who was supposed to be away at school. Granted, his university was only three hours away, but this wasn't any sort of break that she knew of.

She frowned and trudged up the steps to the kitchen door. The room was empty, but she heard voices coming from the living room. A smile crept over her face at the thought of seeing her brother. They'd always had a good relationship, and she'd missed him while he was away.

Clary hung her backpack over the back of one of the kitchen chairs and started down the hall. She opened her mouth to call out to Jonathan, when she heard something that made her skin crawl.

"And you're sure Wayland does this before every game?"

"That's what the girl said," Jonathan said. "She used to date him, so she'd know better than me. She said he always separates from the team fifteen minutes before the game for mental prep. Without fail."

There was a pause in the conversation, and Clary leaned back against the wall. Her pulse raced and her hands grew clammy. What were they talking about? The noise of a chair scraping along the floor sounded, and footsteps crossed to the other side of the room.

"So you know what to do then?"

"Of course," Jonathan said. "It'll be my pleasure to wail on the kid. I've been dying to do it for years now."

"But you know not to do anything too severe. We don't want to injure him permanently, just take him out of commission for a little while. If we want a shot at State, I need him out for at least a few games to mess up their record. Wayland's team is nothing without their quarterback."

Clary cupped her hand over her mouth to conceal the gasp working its way up her throat. She moved back a couple of steps toward the stairs. Her father and brother couldn't be talking about doing what she thought they were talking about.

"I don't understand why you don't want me to hurt him. Wouldn't taking him out permanently be the ultimate bitch slap to Wayland?"

"Of course, but if it ever comes back to us, we're screwed. Say goodbye to your football scholarship and my job. No. Just rough him up a bit. Maybe bruise a rib or two. Don't touch his arm."

Clary's back hit the banister and she reached out behind her to steady herself. They were planning to hurt Jace. But why? So her father's team could beat Wayland's bid for state? She had never heard anything so ludicrous and disgusting in her life. Why was her father doing this? What could have happened all those years ago between her father and Michael Wayland to warrant such a ridiculous feud? A feud that would cause him to want to hurt an innocent kid? And to use his own son to do it . . .

Disgust curled in her stomach. No, she wasn't going to let it happen. Not to Jace or Jonathan. She could stop it.

Doubling back to the kitchen, Clary grabbed her bag and fumbled in the front pocket for her phone. Just as she got it in her hand, a voice from the doorway startled her.

"Clare-bear!"

She glanced up and met the black eyes of her brother. He was smiling down at her, his teeth nearly as white as his hair. There wasn't a single thing about the way he looked at her that gave any indication of what he was planning that night. He looked like Jonathan always looked: like her big brother, like the boy who picked her up and carried her home after she fell off her bike, like the boy who punched Stefan Markus in the face for kissing her in the third grade when she hadn't wanted him to. Jonathan was her protector, someone she looked up to. He wasn't supposed to be an asshole like their father.

He crossed the room and didn't hesitate before scooping her up into his arms, giving her the same bear-hug he always did. "I missed you, shrimp. How've you been?"

Clary swallowed back her anger as he set her back down on the ground. It wouldn't help Jace or Jonathan for her to let on that she knew anything. She forced a smile. "I've been a-okay, big brother. What are you doing home? There's no break going on right now, right?"

"Nah." Jonathan hopped up to sit on the counter. "Dad just needed some help with something, so I came up to give him a hand." He grabbed an apple from the basket and took a large bite. Through the mouthful, he said, "I'm busy tonight, but I'll be around tomorrow. What do you say? Are you too cool to hang with your big brother?"

"Damn straight I am. But for you, I might make an exception." The cool plastic of her phone against her palm reminded her that time was running short. "Listen, I've gotta go call Isabelle about this 'girl's night' we're having tonight, but . . . we'll catch up later?" Clary started to back out of the kitchen, sure Jonathan would be able to see through her fakeness.

"Sure thing, baby girl." He hopped off from the counter, pecked her on the temple, and sauntered into the hall. "Catch you later."

Clary sighed in relief and booked it up the stairs, closing her door and bringing her phone up with a shaking hand. She scrolled through her received messages for the one from Isabelle. When she reached it, she paused. There it was: Jace's number, the thing she'd been avoiding for two weeks. She closed her eyes and tried to talk herself into doing what she knew she needed to do. God! Why was this so hard? Shaking her head and her cowardice away, she opened her eyes and punched the number onto the keypad. It rang, once, twice, three times, four—

_Hey, you've reached Jace's phone . . ._

Crap. Voicemail.

Clary groaned and hit redial. Four more rings and she reached his voicemail again. She was about to leave a message, when she froze. She couldn't leave this on his phone. What if he didn't check it before the game? Then it would be too late. She couldn't knowingly allow him to get hurt, and she really didn't want her brother getting into trouble for going along with her father's stupidity. Also, what if Jace's dad was one of those douches that checked all the incoming and outgoing messages? She couldn't risk either of their father's finding out about them. She stabbed her finger at the end button and plopped down on the end of her bed.

Lying back against the mattress, Clary thrust her hands into her hair. What was she supposed to do now? Suddenly, her phone buzzed in her hand. She startled and stared at the caller ID, her heart beating so fast she thought it might fly out of her chest.

_Isabelle Lightwood, _flashed across the screen. Clary quickly hit _Okay_ to accept the call.

"Izzy?" Clary said, a new plan formulating in her mind.

"Yeah, it's me. So, listen, I'm going through DVD's and I'm wondering: Orlando Bloom or Johnny Depp? Wait, what am I saying? Both, of course! How could I have even thought—"

"Iz, listen!"

Isabelle stopped talking. "What?"

"Do you have Sebastian's number?"

"Yeah, why—"

"Because I need you to get a hold of him and get him to have Jace call me."

Isabelle sighed on the other end. "Clary, you have his number, just call him—"

"I already tried that. He's not answering." Clary was growing frustrated now.

"Oh, my God! You did it! So you're going to—"

"Izzy! Please. Could you just do this for me?"

There was silence for a moment. "Well, normally I would. But Coach Wayland makes them all turn off their phones before a game. I won't be able to get a hold of him."

Clary groaned.

"Clary . . . what's going on?"

She sat up and rubbed her forehead between her thumb and forefinger. "Forget the movie, Iz. Forget girl's night."

"O—kay. So, what then? You have a better plan?"

Clary stared at the wall for several seconds, gathering her courage and taking a deep breath. "Yeah. We're going to a Northwest football game."

.o.O.o.

Clary felt kind of like a traitor entering the enemy's territory as a spectator. She almost wished she'd worn a hat or something to at least cover her head, but then she remembered not many people knew she was a Morgenstern anyway. Jonathan was well known because of his time in the spotlight while he played for their dad, but since Clary was a girl, she didn't have to deal with any of that stuff. Not for the first time, she thanked God she was born with a uterus—then thought better of it, considering the circumstances.

The opposing team was already on the field warming up, but Northwest was nowhere in sight. Her gaze moved to the clock on the scoreboard. Twenty-five minutes to game time. The stands were starting to fill with an abundance of maroon and gold, signs and banners already waving in the air. Clary saw Jace's number on a lot of them, but many of the other players were represented as well. It made her feel strange to be there for him. Every time she saw the number seven she thought something stupid like: "I had sex with him," or "They're cheering for the guy who knocked me up." It was so completely random and dumb, but she couldn't stop the thoughts from rolling through her head.

Isabelle sidled up next to her, her hands rubbing up and down her arms and her breath turning the air in front of her white. "So, what now?"

Clary searched the area for the best way to get to the locker room area without looking obviously like she was trying to do something naughty. She really didn't want to see a bunch of sweaty guys half naked—well, okay, that wasn't exactly true, but still. From the determined look on Isabelle's face, Clary figured she probably wouldn't mind either. She'd told Isabelle what was going on in the car on the way to the game. Needless to say, she was up to the task. Apparently breaking into boys' locker rooms—or at least close to one—was not something that made her bat an eye. "Well, I need to get to him before Jonathan."

"Oh, goody. Follow me." Izzy grabbed Clary's hand and dragged her under the bleachers. She didn't pause or even waver on which direction to go.

"How do you know how to get there without going on the field?"

"You remember when I dated that ass, Mel, freshman year?"

"Um . . ." Clary really didn't. She had only really starting hanging with Isabelle toward the end of last year and more so when she and Simon split.

"It doesn't matter," Isabelle said, pulling her around the back of the stands and in the direction of a small tool shed. "Anyway, I dated him and he was on the team. And, let's just say I'm not a stranger to the Bobcat's locker room." She turned and winked.

"Oh, gross, Iz."

She laughed, but continued to lead. The path they took seemed to stretch forever as it went behind the shed and through a small grouping of trees, coming out near the back corner of the school.

"Okay," Izzy said, pointing toward a set of open double doors. "There's where they come out. Just inside the doors are a hall and a supply closet. If you wait there, you should be able to grab him."

Clary peered out in both directions, looking for any sign of Jonathan. She felt nerves flutter in her stomach, but pushed them back. There was no time for that now. "Okay, wish me luck."

"Go get your man, tiger."

"How many times do I have to tell you that he's _not_ my man?"

"Until I believe it." Isabelle pressed both hands to Clary's back and shoved her out into the open. "Now go make me proud."

Clary wanted to protest, but Isabelle was gone, disappeared into the trees and out of sight. She bit back a groan and took another look around before jogging across the grassy field toward the door. God, what was she doing here? As soon as she reached the opening, she heard a few voices and the click of shoes against tile.

"Crap!" she muttered and ducked into the dark space behind the open door. She prayed with all her might that there were no spiders lurking back there. Gross.

Voices echoed down the corridor, and she peeked through the small crack between the door and the jam. Two boys, carrying some sort of equipment, walked out into the night, laughing and joking about how the Bobcats were going to wipe the field with the opposing team. Neither boy was Jace. Clary fished her phone from her pocket and peeked at the time. Fifteen minutes before game time. God, where was he?

Suddenly, she heard another group of voices, but these were farther away and coming from outside in the opposite direction she'd come from. One of the voices she recognized as her brother's. They were still far enough away, but if Jace didn't show soon, she wouldn't be able to stop it. There was no way she could let her brother see her there—no matter what. Her palms started to sweat and her stomach flipped.

Clary was about to throw all caution away and walk right into the corridor, when she heard the clang of a door closing inside and the click of cleats against the tile. She looked through the crack in the door again. This time, there was no mistaking who it was. She would recognize that blond hair anywhere.

Clary held her breath and watched Jace make his way toward the door. He wore only his football pants, a thin t-shirt, and his pads. His jersey and helmet hung loosely from one hand at his side. His head was down, watching his feet as he walked out the door. Clary had only one shot, and a very small window of time, before the voices she'd heard earlier were on them both. So when he passed by the door, she didn't think, she just grabbed. Her fingers twisted into his t-shirt and she pulled, dragging him behind the heavy metal door with her.

"What the fu—"

"Shhhh!" Clary said, and covered his mouth with her hand. His skin was warm and rough under her palm. A memory of his face against her neck flashed through her mind. There was not much room in the small space, especially with his pads, so she found herself plastered up against him. "It's—it's Clary. Just—"

Jace pulled her hand away, and even in the low light, she could see the surprised gold of his eyes. "Clary? What the hell are you doing here? My dad—"

She placed her fingers against his lips once more, and another sense of déjà vu washed over her. God, his mouth was soft. "Please shut up, they're out there—"

Just outside the door, Clary heard a noise, and quieted immediately, her eyes trained on the area just beyond where she and Jace stood huddled together. Jace exhaled but didn't speak, and Clary nearly shivered at the heat of his breath against her skin. There were no voices, but there was the definite crunch of feet on grass. Near the group of trees only ten or so feet away, Clary caught sight of her brother's shining blond hair, along with several other shades of brown, black and blond moving along with him. Jace stiffened, and Clary lowered her fingers from his lips.

"They're here for you," she whispered, and tried to step back, but found she could move no more than a couple of inches before she was pressed up against the cool brick wall. "I tried to call . . ."

Jace stared out at the group, his eyes never moving from them as he said, "They're here to take me out." He didn't say it like a question; he said it like a statement he already knew the answer to. After a moment, he glanced down at her. "And you came to warn me. Why?"

"What do you mean?" She was genuinely confused.

"I mean," he glanced back at the opening, then at her, "that's your brother out there. I'd know him anywhere. Why are you ratting him out?"

She pulled back from him. "Why does it matter?"

His eyes trailed from one of hers to the other, like he was searching for an answer she wasn't giving. "Why does it matter to you what happens to me, Clary?"

What was this? Did he want someone to beat his ass? Couldn't he just be grateful? "I—It's—I just don't want my brother getting into trouble over this."

"So . . . you didn't come here for me?"

His question caught Clary off guard. "What?"

Jace shook his head and muttered, "Nothing. Never mind."

He turned his gaze back out to the trees, and Clary stood there against him, unable to move, to even breathe. He seemed . . . upset. What had he wanted her to say? That she hadn't wanted him to get hurt? She would have thought her presence there would have made that obvious. But somehow, she got the idea that that wasn't what he was asking.

Clary listened for any signs of the group outside. She wished they'd make at least some noise so she would know when it was safe to leave. The silence was driving her insane, as was the proximity she and Jace were from each other in the small space. Just as it was getting to be too much, he spoke:

"Don't you ever think about it?" His voice was low, quiet. So quiet.

"Think about what?"

"That night," Jace added, even softer, "Don't you think about that night?"

Clary couldn't speak. She didn't know how to answer that question without sounding pathetic, like she thought about it far more than she wanted him to know.

"I think about it. All the time," he continued, and his admittance surprised her. "I think about that night and I wonder. What we did, why we did it, how we did it. I can't stop thinking about it." He paused and his voice lowered to less than a whisper. "I can't stop thinking about you."

Her breath caught and she blinked into the dark. He thought about her?

"Do you really not think about it?" Jace asked again. "Do you really not wonder? How do you do it? Please, just tell me how, because I'm going God-damn insane here."

Clary closed her eyes and tried to concentrate on anything other than him, his closeness, his breath on her face, the thing he was asking her. But he was all around her, and even without sight, she could still feel him there. "Yes. I think about it. How can I not when I'm carrying a reminder around every day?"

She heard him breathe in, ragged and unsure. She opened her eyes.

"That's . . . not what I meant." His voice was barely audible.

"Then what did you mean?"

"Nothing. I don't know . . ." Jace shook his head and moved away from her, toward the opening. "I should get back."

"Jace, wait—" she said, and he froze. "I don't know what you want me to say."

He turned back around. "I want you to tell me it's not just me, Clary. That you can't get this whole thing out of your head either. And I'm not talking about the . . . about what resulted, but what actually happened—between us."

"I think what happened is pretty obvious, don't you?"

He thrust his hand into his hair and growled in frustration. "But _why_ it happened is what I can't stop asking myself." Jace dropped his hand and stared down at her, his eyes almost desperate. "I know you probably won't believe me, but this sort of thing isn't something I do. I don't have one night stands. And during the season," he paused to swallow, "I don't—I don't have sex at all. It's kind of a rule for me."

"A rule?" Clary asked.

"No dating. No girls. No sex. It's only football. When it's not, I—I lose concentration and play like shit."

Clary didn't think Jace Wayland could ever play like shit.

"Ever since that night—even before I knew about . . . you know—I couldn't concentrate on the game. All I could think about was you, what happened, what you did to me to make me want you so much I couldn't stop myself. It's all I still think about."

She felt the tiniest bit of anger spark at his words. "What _I_ did? What about you? How do you know it wasn't you seducing me? We were both wasted. Even the tiny bit I do remember doesn't give me the faintest idea—"

He leaned in, and this time it was his fingers over her mouth to quiet her. She gasped against them. Heat sparked over her lips, her face, down her neck, from just that simple touch.

"That's what I'm talking about," he said, letting his fingertips slide down her mouth slowly, before removing them from her face. "Don't you want to know? Doesn't it make you crazy?"

Clary looked up at him, at the way his eyes held hers. She could see how they looked in her mind's eye from that night: playful and light, then dark and wanting. But right then they weren't either of those things; in fact, she couldn't make out what they were at all. All this time she'd been trying to avoid this, avoid him, avoid wondering about that night. But God, did she ever want to know.

"Yes," she said finally.

He lifted his hand again, as if he wanted to touch her once more, and surprising even to her, Clary wished he would. Just a little. Just for a second. But he lowered his hand without even a graze. "Then stay tonight. For the game. Stay."

"And if I do? Then what?"

"Then . . ." his gaze moved over her face, "then meet me afterward."

Clary could do nothing but stare. This couldn't be happening to her. He couldn't be asking to see her—_her_. Not out of obligation, but because he wanted to know her. Things like this just didn't happen to girls like her. _Boys_ like this didn't happen to girls like her. She was still angry and scared and bitter, and part of her wanted to say no, to continue to live in this bubble of avoidance she'd constructed around herself. But then he said the one word, in that whispered, pleading voice of his, that she was pretty sure could make her do anything he asked:

"Please."

And she was lost. As stupid as it might be, and as much as she knew she should, she didn't want to refuse him. So, there was nothing else she could say, except the thing he seemed to want to hear most:

"Okay."

* * *

><p><em>Hmmm…what's gonna happen next? <em>

_I've been getting a decent amount of comments that are expressing dislike for Clary. I can understand why you wouldn't like her. She's very angry and lashing out at everyone right now. That doesn't make for a super lovable person. But I think it's understandable, both due to her age and her situation. Don't give up on her. She's not all bad. :)_

_I'm not sure that the next update will be next week. I haven't had a lot of time to write during break, so it may take a bit longer. Anyway, hope you enjoyed!_

_Until next time, XOXO ~ddpjclaf_


	8. That's What I Feel

****The character names of The Mortal Instruments are owned by Cassandra Clare. The original content, ideas and intellectual property of this story are owned by ddpjclaf, 2011. Please do not copy, reproduce, or translate without express written permission.****

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Eight - "That's what I feel"<strong>

_*Gulp* Actually kind of nervous about this one…_

_This is unbeta'd. Will fix when I get edits back. Enjoy anyway!_

_Chapter Songs:_

_**Prelude 12/21 – A.F.I_

_**Come On – Ben Jelen_

_**Possession – Sarah McLachlan_

* * *

><p>The lights were always brightest on Friday nights. Even as a kid, Clary always loved game night. She'd sit in the stands with her mom and Jonathan, and although she didn't know much about the game, she would always feel like she was a part of something special. But what seemed to fascinate her most, were the lights, so big, so powerful up in the sky.<p>

She'd often stare up at them and pretend they were groups of stars that clustered together just for the game, just for her. And on those times that Simon came, they pretended they were beams from a spaceship, and the aliens on board were just biding their time before snatching them up and taking them to a far off planet to worship and revere them (Simon's words, not hers).

But in all the times she'd sat under them, never had those lights been as bright as they were tonight.

There was something in the air, something Clary couldn't quite pinpoint. A charge of some sort. Anticipation? Excitement? She couldn't be sure, but it was different than she'd ever felt in a football stadium before.

She'd cheered for many games and watched even more, but she hadn't ever rooted for a team other than the Knights. But that night she couldn't help it, even if it was only inside her mind. The Bobcats were amazing—or rather, Jace was amazing. She'd seen him play before, but she'd never really _watched_ him.

Football wasn't a graceful sport by any means, but he was. Somehow, Jace made it all look so easy, so effortless. He commanded the field like a general at war, leading his team yard after yard, all the way to the end zone time and time again. Whenever he set foot onto the grass, Clary felt it. That charge that went through the stands, the one she couldn't quite understand.

They all knew they were watching greatness out there.

The Bobcats offense was huddled near the sideline, Coach Wayland giving some last minute instructions before the time out was over. Clary could see Jace at his side, his head bowed as his father's hand moved over the play board. She imagined his face was serious as he concentrated on his father's words. It took her all of three seconds to realize she didn't know what his serious face looked like—or his joking, happy, or playful ones either. She didn't know anything about him, but right then, a part of her wanted to. A part she'd been trying to suppress since that night.

After a few moments, all the players put their hands in, chanted something she couldn't make out, and then dispersed. Jace started to follow, when his father's hand shot out and grabbed him by the collar and yanked him back. Clary felt a strange sort of tightening in her chest. She leaned forward in her seat, her elbows digging into her knees.

"Coach Wayland is such a dick," Isabelle muttered while munching on a ginormous helping of nachos and jalapeños she'd gotten from the snack bar.

Clary turned to her friend, breathing through her mouth so she didn't gag at the smell of the nachos. "What's the deal with that?" She nodded toward the spectacle on the sidelines.

Isabelle shrugged and licked melted cheese from her fingers. "He's a hard ass, I guess—at least according to Sebastian. But he's especially bad with Jace. You know, probably that whole father-son thing."

Clary thought about that. Her own father had been much the same with Jonathan, always pushing him to run faster, throw harder. It didn't matter how much he practiced or how well he played, there was always room for improvement. Coaches were never harder on any player than they were on their own kid.

She looked back out at the field. Coach Wayland now had Jace by the facemask and seemed to be speaking intensely right in his face. Clary couldn't see Jace's face from this far away, but she had to assume he wasn't thrilled. No one liked to be talked to that closely, especially since the only reason people usually trapped you like that was to yell at you.

After a moment, Coach Wayland let Jace go and he jogged out to the center of the field where his team was already in position. He stepped up behind his center, half in a crouch, when he turned his head, shouted something to one of the guys standing to his left, made some sort of gesture with his hand, then turned back forward. It was only a second later before the ball was snapped and in his hands. Clary leaned forward a little more and wrung her hands while watching in rapt fascination.

Jace held the ball up to his chest and took a few steps back. Opposing players converged around him, his line keeping them back but leaving only about a foot of space between him and them. But that's all he needed.

Clary held her breath as she watched him mark his man, bring his arm up and back, and release the ball. It left his fingertips and sailed in a perfect spiral into the air. Her eyes started to follow the ball, when the hold around Jace broke and one of the opposing linemen slammed into him from behind. A totally unnecessary hit.

"What the hell?" Clary jumped to her feet when no flag was thrown. "Aw, come on, ref! Roughing the passer!"

Several spectators turned to stare in her direction, and Isabelle snickered beside her.

"What are you laughing at?" Clary asked Izzy. "They're not supposed to hit him that long after the release! It should be a penalty."

Isabelle held her hands up. "I didn't say anything."

"You're laughing!"

"Because it's funny." Isabelle grinned. "For him not being 'your man' you sure have been protective of him today."

Clary's mouth dropped open to defend herself, when she felt her spine prickle. Turning back toward the field, she noticed the Bobcat's defense had taken the field and the offense had returned to the sideline. Involuntarily, her eyes scanned the area for Jace and it didn't take long for them to find him. He was standing at the back, his helmet off and his face turned toward the stands, eyes on her. Clary swallowed hard, realizing at once that she was still on her feet—the only one still on her feet. Jace's mouth twitched into what looked like it might be a smile, and he nodded very slightly in her direction before turning back to the game.

"Aww," Isabelle said. "Me thinks somebody liiiiiiiiiikes you."

Clary felt her cheeks heat and began to lower herself back to her seat, but not before she caught the stare of a blonde girl closer to the bottom of the stands. She sat in the third row and was definitely looking at Clary. The girl narrowed her eyes, held Clary's for a few seconds more, and then whipped her head back forward, her hair smacking the person behind her.

What was that about?

Isabelle nudged Clary in the shoulder, and when Clary looked, Izzy gave her an over-exaggerated wink.

"Shut up." Clary rolled her eyes.

But Isabelle did no such thing. Instead she started to sing in a whispered voice, "Clary's got a booooyfriend . . ."

Clary groaned and lowered her head to her knees, her arms covering her ears, but not even that could drown out Isabelle's hyena cackling.

The game ended shortly thereafter, the Bobcats bringing another victory. Clary's father would be pissed, but that actually gave her a smug sense of satisfaction. He deserved it for the crap he'd tried to pull earlier.

After helping Isabelle gather all the garbage from her many trips to the snack bar (How did someone so thin eat so much?), Clary turned to exit the stands, but was stopped by a wall of blonde. Three girls, all with super low-cut pants, tight shirts, and heeled boots, stood in her path, arms crossed over their ample chests. Clary raised her brows and froze. Isabelle stepped up beside her.

"Well, well, what do we have here?" said the blonde in the middle. It took Clary only a moment to realize she was the same girl who'd given her the evil eye earlier. "A couple of Southeast cheerleader skanks in our territory?"

Clary and Isabelle weren't impressed with the poorly executed _Mean Girls_ knockoff.

"Your territory?" Isabelle said, while glancing around in an effort to look innocent. "I'm pretty sure this is a public area. Is your name on it somewhere?"

The girl cocked her head to the side. "Cute. Don't act like you're not here for a reason. I know what you're after."

"Really?" Izzy said. "I'm pretty sure we were here for a game, but—"

"Oh, get off it," the girl cut Izzy off. "Don't think I haven't seen you hanging all over Sebastian Verlac? Don't you have any guys at your own school? Oh, wait, I forgot for a second, they don't grow 'em cute in the south, now do they?"

Isabelle started forward, but Clary pressed a hand to her chest. "Come on, Iz, let's just go."

The girl turned to Clary. "Oh, you're not going anywhere until I've made myself clear on a few things.

"And what are those?"

The girl grinned, but it wasn't nice or pretty. It was a warning. "I know who you are," she said. "And I know why you're here."

Clary raised a brow.

"You can't have him."

"Uh, who is it you think I'm here to get?"

"You can't have Jace. He's mine. He's been mine for two years, and I'm not about to let a little hussy like you try and weasel her way between us."

Clary felt anger curl in her stomach. She wanted to slap the skank and pull her perfect platinum hair, but didn't think it would be very smart, considering she didn't really want to put a spotlight on whatever was going on with Jace. So she played dumb instead. "I don't have any idea what you're talking about."

The girl stepped forward, her face a pinched. She bent until her eyes were level with Clary's. "I know you're the one." Her voice was quiet. "From the party. I know it was you."

"Oh, yeah?" Clary crossed her arms over her chest in an effort to look tough, and to also hide the fact that her hands were shaking. What did this girl know? Had she seen something? "Which party was that? I go to a lot."

The girl grinned. "Oh, fine. Go ahead. Play dumb. But let me just make this clear," she leaned in even closer, "I don't give a shit about you two sucking face at that party. That doesn't change a thing. He's still mine, so stay away from him."

"Funny," Isabelle said. "But I'm pretty sure if he's been 'sucking face' with other girls at parties, then he's not anybody's. Also, Sebastian said Jace doesn't date during the season." She tapped her finger against her lip. "So, how is it that he's 'yours' again? Curious."

The girl straightened and narrowed her eyes.

"Yeah, that's what I thought," Isabelle said, grabbing Clary's arm and pushing their way through. Just before they reached the bottom of the bleachers, Izzy turned, her finger in the air. "Oh, and maybe you should, you know, make sure the guy is on the same page before you claim to own him. What if he doesn't agree?" She shook her head. "How embarrassing for you."

Isabelle tightened her grip on Clary and pulled her the rest of the way down the bleachers before the girl could say anything else. Clary nearly tripped a few times.

"Who the heck was that?" Clary whisper-shouted.

"That," Isabelle blew a wisp of hair from her eyes, "was most likely the ex, Kaelie. Seb said she's been having a bit of trouble accepting the fact that she and Jace are done."

"A bit?" Clary pulled her arm from Izzy's grasp and stopped. "Okay. I'm so not interested in a cat fight over some guy."

"Yeah, well, this isn't just some guy, is it?" Isabelle turned to face Clary. "Stop acting like he is."

Clary shook her head, crossed her arms over her chest, and looked out at the empty field. She didn't want to have this conversation again.

Soon, Isabelle spoke again, her voice low and quiet. "You can try and fight it all you want, Clary, but nothing is going to change the fact that he is your kid's father. You don't have to have a relationship with him. Hell, you don't even have to like him in the end." She paused, her expression softening. "But don't you at least owe it to yourself to see what's there?"

"I don't know. I keep thinking maybe it's better to just leave it alone. I mean, this can't end well, right? Look at what happened with Simon."

Isabelle sighed. "You and Simon never belonged together. You didn't feel about Simon how you feel about Jace."

"I don't feel anything about him! I don't know him. When are you going to listen to me?"

"When you start listening to yourself!" Isabelle said. "Maybe you don't know it here," she pressed her finger to Clary's temple, "but somewhere inside you, you know you feel something. I can't tell you what it is, but I can tell you what I saw tonight."

When Clary didn't answer, Isabelle went on:

"I saw your eyes never leave him on that field. I heard you hold your breath and felt you flinch every time he went down."

"So what?" Clary said, indignantly. "It's football. I always do that when I watch a game. It had nothing to do with him." But even as she said the words, she wondered if she believed them herself. It had been different watching him, knowing he was the one falling and getting hit.

Isabelle stared at her for a second. "There's something there, Clary, and I think you owe it to yourself to find out what it is."

"What if you're wrong and there's not? Then what?" The thought made her stomach twist into a knot. How was she supposed to have a baby with someone she couldn't stand? Didn't love?

"Then I'll be wrong, and you'll know." Isabelle paused and glanced at Clary from the corner of her eye, a grin tweaking her mouth. "But I don't think I'm wrong."

.o.O.o.

The locker room was still buzzing by the time Jace finished his shower. Granted, it was the quickest shower in the history of showers, but he hadn't expected the majority of the team to still be there. The locations of parties and places to pick up chicks were being muttered all over the room, but there was only one place Jace needed to be tonight.

As soon as he reached his locker, he threw on his clothes and ran his hand through his wet hair. Jace never bothered to actually brush it with a brush or comb, fingers were good enough. But he did an even more half-assed job this time than normal.

"What's the rush? Got a hot date, Sunshine?" Sebastian leaned on the locker next to Jace's, studying his nails like he didn't care about the answer.

"You know," Jace continued to pack his bag and refused to look at Sebastian, "I'm going to stop responding when you call me that."

Sebastian sighed. "When are you going to realize that," he grinned and started to sing, loud and out of tune, "_you are my Sunshine, my only Sunshine_."

Around the room, more voices joined in, until everyone was singing.

"_You make me happy when skies are gray! You'll never know, dear, how much I love you!"_

"Jesus Christ." Jace slammed his locker shut. "You are all the biggest bunch of assholes."

Sebastian slung his arm over Jace's shoulder and said in a very serious voice, "Please don't take my Sunshine away."

"Get off me," Jace said, and shoved Sebastian's arm away.

Sebastian held his hands up in surrender and backed away. "All right, whatever you say. But know this," he paused, "you're still my only Sunshine."

Jace lunged, but just before his hands closed around Sebastian, he heard a throat clear behind him. He froze. He would know that sound anywhere. With a steadying breath, he pivoted on his heel. His father stood behind him, his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes fixed on the two boys.

"Oh, hey, Coach," Jace said, hoping his use of "coach" instead of "dad" would soften the blow a bit. "We were just—"

"Being boys, I see." His father offered a smile, but Jace saw beyond it to his real feelings. His dad hated horse play. Especially in his locker room. "Before you disappear, Jace, I need to see you in my office?"

Shit. He was using his nice voice. His father never used his nice voice in front of Sebastian. Not unless . . .

"Uh, yeah, sure?" Jace said, but all he could think was: _What did I do wrong now?_

Sebastian gave Jace a sympathetic look and went back to his locker. Jace gripped the strap of his bag tighter and followed his father back to his office. He expected his father to lay into him the second they crossed the threshold from the locker room, but was surprised by the presence of another man.

The man turned as Jace entered the room. He was dressed in a suit and tie—definitely not something someone would wear to a high school football game. His black hair was slicked back against his head, and on his face he wore a large, expensive-looking smile. When he saw Jace, he held out his hand and stepped forward.

Jace took it and gave his father a questioning look. But it was the man who spoke up first.

"Jace Wayland, it's an honor to meet you. Your father has told me a lot about you in our phone conversations, but I had to come out here to see for myself."

Jace continued to look between the man and his father, having no idea who he was or why in the hell he wanted to meet with him.

"Excuse my manners," the man said. "Marcus Pangborn, new head coach for the SEU Panthers, and you, young man, are just what we need to get our team off to a great start next season. Do you have a few minutes to talk?"

Damn it. Jace's stomach dropped. Not tonight. Not when he'd finally gotten Clary to agree to talk to him.

"Well, I—"

"Of course he does," his father said. "Please, have a seat." His eyes stopped on Jace's. It was not a request for him.

Jace sighed and lowered himself into one of the chairs across from his father's desk. Damn it. What the hell was he going to do now? She was waiting for him. He'd seen her in the stands during the game. But how long would she stay? Would she stay at all? There was only one way to find out.

While Jace's father and the man began to talk specifics, Jace slipped his phone from his pocket and found the missed call from earlier in the night. He didn't recognize the number, but since he knew Clary had tried to get a hold of him, he took a chance it was hers.

_Please wait, _was all he wrote, and he hoped it was enough.

He tried to listen to what his father and the man were saying, but all he could do was think about where he'd rather be. Any other time, this would be the highlight of his evening: someone scoping him out, giving him his chance. But not tonight. Tonight he couldn't think about football or college or anything else.

A moment later, his phone buzzed in his hand. Jace looked down and smiled at the word on the screen.

_Okay._

.o.O.o.

_Please wait._

The words made Clary's stomach flip, and that made her eyes roll. Her stomach should not be flipping for him, or anyone for that matter. She swallowed against the feeling and calmly typed a response.

_Okay._

The breath she exhaled was shaky. Okay, maybe calmly was stretching it a bit (or a lot). The truth was, she wasn't calm at all and she hated herself for it. During the game she'd been able to squelch her anxiety by immersing herself in football, but now . . . now she had nothing to shield her from the promise she'd made . . .

God. What had she been thinking? What was she supposed to say to him? How was she supposed to act? Earlier that night, as they'd hidden behind the door together and he'd touched her, talked to her so gently, she'd tried to contain it, but she'd felt her foundation shake. Just a little. But it was enough. Enough to form cracks, and she knew it. She also knew how dangerous those cracks could be.

"Was that him?" Isabelle asked between sips of her Slurpee. What the heck? Who was the pregnant girl between them? Clary swore Isabelle had eaten half the concession stand by then.

"Yeah." Clary tucked her phone back into her pocket and leaned against the fence surrounding the field.

"And?"

"And what?"

Isabelle turned toward where the players were exiting the field, regular clothing covering them instead of their uniforms. Clary felt a stitch of anxiety pinch her chest. This was a really stupid idea.

"Are they coming out?"

"Um," Clary moved from one foot to the other. "I don't know. He just asked me to wait."

"Wait for wh—"

"Izzy!" A masculine voice called from behind them.

Both Clary and Isabelle turned toward it. Standing on the opposite side of the fence was a boy Clary had never seen before. He wore a letterman's jacket, white t-shirt, and a pair of baggy jeans. His jet black hair hung into his dark eyes, the back just brushing the top of his shirt collar. The boy grinned at Isabelle, showing off a small gap between his front two teeth that, surprisingly, wasn't unattractive.

"Hey, Seb," Isabelle said. "Nice game."

"Mmhmm," Seb said, and Clary figured out he must be the illusive Sebastian Isabelle was always going on and on about. She could see why. He was sort of hot with all that hair and dark, piercing eyes. Speaking of which, those eyes flitted to Clary and narrowed in question, but also in what seemed a bit like recognition. "And this is . . .?"

"Oh," Isabelle gestured to Clary. "Seb, this is Clary. Clary, Sebastian."

Sebastian held out his hand palm-up, and Clary raised her brows before placing her hand inside. Sebastian kept his gaze on hers as he lifted it to his mouth, paused and gave her a devilish grin before kissing the top. Heat flooded Clary's cheeks as he dropped her hand.

"Quit with the flirting, Seb," Isabelle said. "You're gonna set her face on fire."

"I'm not flirting," Sebastian said, sounding affronted. "It's called being a gentleman."

Isabelle snorted then covered her mouth to stop it.

Sebastian grinned again and leaned into the fence closest to Isabelle. "Just because you prefer me in the non-gentlemanly way doesn't mean other girls don't appreciate chivalry."

"Yeah, Iz." Clary bumped Isabelle with her hip.

"Well, you got me there." Isabelle waggled her brows. "I like my boys _bad_."

Clary shook her head and looked away, noticing Sebastian still studying her with a strange expression on his face. The attention made her uncomfortable and a bit annoyed.

"What?" she asked.

"Nothing," he said, and then paused as if he were thinking. "You just . . . you look familiar to me, but I can't place you."

"She's the one I brought to the party a while back. Remember when I said I was bringing a friend?"

Clary felt her heart speed at the mention of that night.

Sebastian frowned. "Oh," he said, the word almost an afterthought, until his eyes widened and he said once more, "Oh!" He snapped his fingers and pointed at her. "You're Sunshine's sexy redhead with the boots! Damn, I knew you looked familiar."

"Um, what?" Clary shoved her hands into her pockets to keep them from fidgeting.

"Sunshine—oh, uh, Jace." He paused. "You know, our quarterback? Jace?"

Clary played dumb. She didn't know if Jace had let his friend in on the fact that they had discovered each other's identities, and she didn't want to be the one to spill the secret. This was Jace's world, and she certainly wouldn't want him invading hers unless she knew about it, so she wasn't about to do the same to him.

"Ah, well," Sebastian said, and came around the fence, wrapping his arm around Izzy's waist. She snuggled in like his side was the best place in the world to be. "Guess we all had a few too many that night." He chuckled. "Sunshine doesn't remember either. But, hey, what's a few smooches between rivals, am I right?"

Clary tried to smile, but was sure it came out as more of a grimace. Isabelle stood at Sebastian's side, her eyes wide.

"You know," Sebastian said. "He's just inside if you wanna—"

"Hey, Seb, you ready to go?" Isabelle finally snapped out of her stupor and tugged at his arm.

"Well, yeah, but . . ." He stopped. "What about you, Clary? You coming too?"

"Oh, I—"

"She can't," Isabelle cut her off. "She's got a ride coming."

Clary started to protest that she didn't have a ride then realized what Isabelle was doing. "Right. Yeah. I, um, I can't. Gotta be up early for . . ." She searched her mind for a logical excuse, but nothing came. Thankfully, Sebastian didn't seem to need one.

"That's cool. Too bad though. Maybe you could've lit Sunshine's fire again. I swear that guy needs some—"

Isabelle slapped her hand over Sebastian's mouth. "O—kay. I guess we'll be going now." She pulled at Sebastian again and met Clary's gaze. "Call me if you need anything. Okay? _Any_thing."

Clary nodded and watched as they walked away, Sebastian grabbing at Isabelle and her jumping away in mock protest. With a sigh, Clary moved back to the bleachers and climbed up a few before sitting. The lights still illuminated the field, but it was now empty of people.

She stared out at the emptiness and wondered—not for the first time—what in the heck she was still doing there. This wasn't smart. Not at all. Not only could someone see them there, but there was something about this boy . . . something that made Clary feel unsettled, out of control. And now more than ever she needed to stay in control. Things were going to be hard enough once everyone found out she was pregnant, she couldn't deal with Jace's rejection on top of that. And she was sure he would reject her and the baby at some point. Teenage boys didn't want to be fathers, especially to babies made with strangers—strangers that were their biggest rivals no less—and they definitely didn't want to be fathers when they had as much going for them as Jace did.

Maybe he was curious now—about what happened and about who that girl at the party was—but that wouldn't last. When he found out she wasn't wild and carefree, and apparently, easy, he'd bolt. She knew he would. Boys didn't want art geeks who masqueraded as cheerleaders, with psychotic, obsessive fathers and brothers, and flighty moms who would rather work than spend time with her family. No one wanted that. They wanted "party Clary", and "party Clary" wasn't real.

Clary lowered her face into her hands. This was an impossible situation. She couldn't let her guard down. Not now. Not when everything in her life balanced on a knife's edge. One wrong move and she would be lost. Heck, maybe she already was.

What if letting him in was the wrong move?

What if that move made her fall off the precarious edge into the oblivion?

No. If she stayed her current course—the one where she avoided him—there was at least one part of herself she could keep. One very small part that would still be hers when everything went out of control. She didn't actually know what that part was, but she felt it in there, begging her not to withdraw her protection.

But then there was another part of herself that didn't want to be alone, didn't want to bear the burden of this by herself. A part that, despite all her internal and external denials, wanted to know this boy too, wanted to know why she felt the way she did around and about him, that wanted to see what was there just like Isabelle said. Because she did feel something, something she couldn't even begin to describe, but that scared her maybe more than anything else. And it was that something that kept her sitting there on those cold bleachers, even though her brain screamed at her to go. To just forget about this whole thing and save herself the pain and embarrassment of watching him walk away later.

The big lights surrounding the field suddenly went dark and only the dull glow of the orange lamps out in the parking lot lent any light. Clary exhaled and lifted her head. Why couldn't there be one easy answer? One sure way to make everything tolerable for both of them?

But there wasn't and there couldn't be. Not ever again.

So she sat there, alone and in the dark, waiting. Waiting for a boy who had the potential to crush her into a million pieces, to make her weak and bumbling and everything she hated about all the other girls she knew.

Or who had the very slight possibility to save her.

Not from this situation or life or anything else that those pathetic, idiotic girls needed saving from. But from the most dangerous thing of all: herself. Her pride. Her stupid, stubborn mouth. Her need to never let anyone past her outer shell.

The question was: which was she going to let him do? Know her? Like her? Or would she hold him at an arm's length? Make sure there was nothing between them except one stupid night and a door?

These were all questions she asked herself and couldn't answer. And they were also questions that covered up the ones she really should have been asking: what was she really afraid of? That he would walk away? Or that he wouldn't?

.o.O.o.

Every light in the stadium was out by the time Coach Pangborn and Jace's father let him go. Jace rushed outside, cursing under his breath at his father for arranging this shit without telling him. God, he hoped she hadn't left, though he wouldn't blame her since it had been almost an hour since he'd texted. His eyes swept the stands and the surrounding areas, but there was no sign of her.

"Shit," he said to himself. "Shit, shit, shit." He fumbled in his pocket for his phone, and when his hand surrounded it, it buzzed against his palm. Pulling it out, Jace glanced at the screen.

_Do you always swear so much? _

He grinned and quickly typed a response, relief flooding through him.

_**Only when my date seems to have disappeared.**_

His phone buzzed once more.

_You have a date?_

_**Very funny. **_

_I might not have stuck around if I'd known._

_**It's not a date in the traditional sense. **_

_What's the 'traditional sense'?_

_**You know: food, movies, awkward kissing at the end of the night. This is probably more of an appointment. **_

_Ah, well that's disappointing—the food part at least. She's probably starving._

Jace shook his head, chuckled, and tucked his phone back into his jeans pocket. "Where are you?" He glanced around again, still not seeing any trace of her.

"Under here," came her reply from the dark space under the bleachers to his right.

Jace frowned and ducked under the stands. "I thought you said this wasn't a date? Most 'appointments' don't take place under the bleachers."

"Ha ha. I don't know whether to be disgusted or merely disappointed that you think meeting under the bleachers is a date," she said, and Jace followed her voice. "My keys fell out of my pocket . . ."

Jace then spotted the dull glow of a cell phone screen. He continued forward until he could see the outline of her in the light that bounced back. She was hunched over, searching through the debris strewn ground.

"What were you doing down here to lose your keys?"

Clary looked up, her face illuminated in the glow of her phone, and scowled. "I was sitting up there." She pointed to the stands above them. "Wondering why I was waiting when I was clearly being stood up—"

"But I texted—" he protested, and Clary continued as if he hadn't spoken.

"—and I heard them fall." She paused and glanced at him with a small smile. "And I was kidding."

Jace exhaled and felt his chest loosen as if he'd been holding his breath for a long time, though he hadn't been. Why did this girl make him feel so out of it? Normally he'd have a snide comeback of some sort, but with her he couldn't think, couldn't seem to relax. She was turning him into such a girly asshole.

"Here, let me help you." Jace pulled his phone back out and turned it on, the screen emitting a dull glow.

Silently, the two of them searched the ground below for any trace of her keys. It was so awkward and strange being there with her, but even so, he didn't want to be anywhere else. He didn't know how to talk to her, or even what to say if he could figure out how to speak again. Why was this so hard? Jace never had a problem talking to girls before. In fact, he was good with girls. Really good. He didn't even have to try most of the time and they were all over him. But Clary was anything but easy. He could tell how unsure of him she was by the distance she kept between them. Jace wished she'd say something, anything, to break the tension. But she didn't, so, he stayed quiet, his eyes on the ground and his mind working to come up with some way to start a conversation.

About a foot in front of him, the light from his phone caught a glint of metal. He stepped forward and crouched, reaching out at the same moment Clary did. His hand closed over hers as she grabbed the keys. Her breath caught, and for just a second, Jace let his hand stay there, covering hers, his skin sparking with warmth. Even though it was only a moment, it was long enough. She was so soft and warm and tiny beneath him. He wanted to wrap his fingers around and hold on tight, just to see what it would feel like to hold her, just that small part of her. But before he could even think about doing anything at all, Clary snatched her hand back, her keys jangling.

"Got 'em." She shoved them in her pocket and stumbled back, as if she couldn't wait to get away from him.

Jace sighed and stood, letting the light of his phone go out. Disappointment flowed over him. He knew it was going to be weird, but damn it, he didn't want it to be so awkward they couldn't even talk. "You know," he said, "it doesn't have to be like this."

The light on Clary's phone dimmed then went out completely, plunging them both into pitch blackness. "Like what?"

"This weird, awkward shit."

Jace heard Clary exhale, and then the rustle of grass beneath her feet. "But it is, isn't it?"

"I don't want it to be," Jace said, truthfully.

Clary stayed silent.

"Do you?" Jace asked.

"I don't know," she said quietly. "I don't know how to act."

"Just act like you. It was_ you_ I wanted to see tonight."

Clary laughed and it ended with a little condescending snort. "What if I don't know who that is?"

With everything that had happened in his life: living with a controlling father who cared more about football than a real relationship with his son, to losing his mom when he was just thirteen, the one thing Jace had always been sure of was himself, who he was. But he could at least act like he got what she meant. "We're teenagers. We're not supposed to know who we are."

Clary laughed again, and this time it sounded genuine. "Yeah, I guess. I'm just—I'm not very good at this stuff."

"What stuff?"

"You know, guys, talking . . . being myself."

A memory of her smiling and talking about how she most certainly _did_ do a dance routine to a very suggestive song, came to Jace's mind. And that memory ultimately led to her straddling his legs and leaning into him, her mouth centimeters from his ear and her breathy voice whispering over his flesh. Jace shifted uneasily in his spot. "Oh, I think you're better at it than you know," he said, feeling a chill race down his spine.

Clary didn't say anything for a few long seconds, and Jace started to wonder if he'd just screwed everything up by sounding like a douche.

"I'm really hungry," she said, her voice strained with embarrassment. "I'm sorry. It's—I can't help it. I usually have stuff with me, but I hadn't planned to stay . . ."

Jace couldn't help but chuckle at the randomness of her statement. "Okay. Do you want to go somewhere or—"

"I don't really think that's a good idea. I mean, we can't really let anyone see us together, right?"

Shit. "Oh, right . . ." Hell, this was going to be complicated.

"You know, we could just do this another time—"

"No! Just . . ." Jace wracked his brain for a solution. They were finally alone, finally not arguing, he didn't want to wait. He didn't want her to leave. But he also didn't want to starve her to death either. Suddenly, the solution came to him. Pressing the button on his phone once more, he held it in front of him to light the way. Holding out his hand to Clary, he said, "Come on."

She stared at him, first at his face then his hand, her uncertainty plain in her expression.

"It's just so you don't trip," he said. "I won't try anything."

Clary glanced up at him, and even in the low light, Jace could see the green of her eyes. There was so much hesitancy, so much mistrust. He knew the way they'd met and what had happened as a result of that meeting weren't exactly good, but he didn't think it warranted such caution. He wondered what could have happened in this girl's life to make her so weary to give in a little.

"I swear."

She studied him for several more seconds, a light of determination glinting in her eyes. And then slowly, she lifted her hand, paused, and slipped it in his. Immediately his fingers closed around hers, almost as if they were drawn magnetically to her. He couldn't have stopped them if he'd tried. Heat pulsed from the places their skin touched, spreading through his palm and shooting up his arm.

Jace inhaled sharply as pictures and sensations flashed though his mind again. His hands slipping up her thighs, hers in his hair, pulling hard, so hard. His fingers digging in as her mouth closed over his, tongue slipping across his lip.

He let out a breath and the images and feelings died away as quickly as they'd come, leaving him standing in the dark once more, his hand surrounding Clary's. He struggled to breathe normally.

Clary's brows drew together. "You all right?"

Jace blinked, trying to clear his mind, but still, he could see that version of her, feel her wrapped around him, wanting him, and him wanting her like he'd never wanted anyone before. He swallowed, but it didn't seem to help. "Yeah. Of course." His voice cracked a little "Let's go." He turned away before she could question him further and started back toward where he'd entered the bleachers, pulling her behind him. His body vibrated with the lingering memory. Damn. That was intense. When were these visions going to stop? He wished he could just God-damned remember already. Enough of this shit.

Seconds later, they emerged from beneath the stands, and even though he wanted to keep holding her hand, he let her go. The loss of her touch left Jace feeling a persistent nagging in his chest. Ignoring it, he led Clary toward the back of the stadium where the lights from the parking lot lent better illumination. Just before they reached the asphalt, Jace stopped at the small cinderblock building with a large metal closure in the front. The structure housed the restrooms and snack bar. He thrust his hands into his pockets, searching for his keys when Clary spoke:

"Uh, I appreciate the gesture and all, but since we're the only ones here, I'm pretty sure this is closed."

Jace walked around the building to the door on the side. Holding up a small silver key, he grinned. "Not if you have a key."

Clary raised her brows. "Do I even want to know how you have a key to the snack bar?"

"My father gave it to me." Jace pushed the key into the lock, twisted, and opened the door, flipping the light switch before sweeping his hand in a gesture for Clary to enter. "I'm here so much to practice that I practically live here. Sometimes I get hungry or thirsty or you know, have to use the bathroom."

"But isn't that stealing?" Clary stepped past him into the hall. Apparently she was hungry enough not to care if it was stealing or not.

"I pay for what I take," Jace said. "But even if I didn't it's not like they'd care."

"Why not?" Clary glanced back at him. "Are you above it all since you're their big 'star'?" She tweaked her fingers when she said the word star.

Jace shoved his hands in his pockets and shrugged his shoulders. He didn't want to sound like a massive dick and account for her all the "perks" he got just for being who he was—free reign on the snack bar being the least of them. But she snorted and rolled her eyes, looking away and letting him know she got the idea anyway. For the first time ever, he felt a little like an asshole for all of it.

"It's not like I ask for it," he said in his defense, stopping at another door and using his key once more.

"Maybe not, but it's not like you say no, either." She stepped inside and looked around. Jace tried hard not to be pissed at what she'd said, because it was kind of the truth. Clary turned and her expression softened when she looked at him. "Sorry. I'm kind of a bitch when I'm hungry—and when I'm not sometimes too."

"It's all right." He gestured for her to have at the snacks. "You're right anyway. I don't say no."

"Maybe you should. You know, just to shake things up a bit."

"Maybe I will," he said with a grin. And just before she turned away, he could have sworn she grinned a little in return.

After several minutes of Clary picking through the snacks available, she finally found what she wanted: Skittles, nachos—no cheese, so basically tortilla chips—and a Sprite. Jace grabbed a couple of small things too, then placed several dollars on the counter, which Clary complained about but Jace ignored. Then the two of them made their way back out to the field, because it was either there or his car since they both agreed they couldn't be seen together. They stood at the fence surrounding the field, both eating their snacks and staring out at the dark. Jace still had no idea what to say, and Clary wasn't being much help, until, surprisingly, she said the thing he'd been thinking the whole time.

"Why is this so awkward? I mean, I have all these questions and thoughts, but I can't seem to articulate any of them."

"Well, to take a wild stab at it, I'd say it's probably the sex."

She choked on whatever she was eating, but quickly regained her composure.

"Sorry," Jace said. "Just figured blunt was best at this point."

"No," she shook her head, "it's fine. It's true. It's just . . . so strange because I know it happened, but I can't remember . . . that . . . at all."

Jace glanced over at her, watching the way the wind blew strands of her hair across her cheek, and for a brief second, he wished those strands were his fingers. He wondered if she would smack him if they were. Probably. And if Sebastian ever found out Jace was thinking about her hair or touching her like her hair was, he'd never hear the end of it. He really needed to stop thinking like such a pansy.

He sighed. "It's probably best you don't. I'm not thinking that was one of my finest moments anyway. I'd hate for you to remember me like that."

She met his gaze. "Better than not really remembering you at all."

"I don't know, Clary." He shook his head and looked down at his feet, feeling the shame over everything that happened wash over him again. "Maybe."

Clary shifted next to him. "Well, for what it's worth, I remembered something earlier." Jace's head snapped up, but she wasn't looking at him. She chewed at her bottom lip. "And from what I remembered, you were very . . . nice . . . to me."

"I was?"

She nodded and finally looked up. Holding up a finger, she said, "You put a Band-Aid on my finger."

Jace laughed and glanced out at the field once more. "Well, that's . . . random."

"Yeah," she said. "I don't remember meeting you, drinking all that alcohol, talking to you or . . . or . . . kissing you, but I remember you putting a Band-Aid on my finger. What a jip, right?" She let out a strained laugh that let Jace know she didn't think it was funny at all. Neither did he, really.

"I remember kissing you," Jace said, softly.

Clary stilled beside him, and Jace heard her let out a breath. He glanced over and she was staring at her hands, which were clutching the metal of the fence. Her chest rose and fell more rapidly than normal, but she didn't look at him. He was about to speak again, to apologize for being an insensitive ass, when she spoke:

"And . . .?" she asked so quietly Jace wondered if he'd heard her correctly, but the darkening of her cheeks let him know he had heard her just fine.

"And what?"

She hesitated. "And how was it?"

Jace closed his eyes and let the memory come: lips, first soft and hesitant then harder, more persistent and wet. The smoothest tongue, the sweetest taste. Jesus, he wanted to taste it again, to see if it was just as sweet.

"It was . . ." He tried to put his memories into words, but none would come. "I can't really describe it."

"God," she put her head into her hands, "it was that bad?"

Jace leaned down and removed her hands, replacing them with his. "No," he said, their faces only inches apart now, their eyes locked, his palms cupping her cheeks. "It wasn't bad at all. Quite the opposite actually."

Clary's lips parted slightly, and Jace's eyes dropped to them. They were so close and so pink. Her face felt so small and fragile in his hands. He swallowed and inched a little closer without thinking. It was almost as if he had no control over his own reactions.

"I could . . ." was all he said before her mouth was right in front of his, so close he could feel her breath mingling with his. It would take only a few more centimeters, a few more and he would be right there, kissing her again, seeing if his memories of how it felt were true. Anticipation buzzed through his body. Never had he wanted to kiss a girl so much. And even though he knew how bad of an idea it was, his fingers tightened on her jaw, drawing her in, bringing her closer—

"Please don't," she whispered, her words puffing against his mouth.

Jace froze, but did not move away. He couldn't. He physically couldn't. "Why?"

"Because I—I can't. Just . . . please."

Jace let his hands slip from her face and dropped his head. God, he was an idiot. "I'm sorry. I just . . . I just want to remember you."

"Maybe we're just not meant to remember."

Jace looked up, sure she could see the disappointment on his face, since his entire body radiated with it, but she didn't turn away.

"Maybe we just need to start over," she offered.

"Start over?"

"Yeah," she took a step back. "Maybe we can get to know each other as . . . as friends."

"Friends?" Jace tested the word in his mouth, not liking at all how it tasted on his tongue. He wanted to touch this girl, to kiss her, to remember what it was like _being_ with her, and she wanted to be friends? Jesus Christ. Did she not feel anything he felt? He couldn't believe she didn't. The way she looked at him, the way she reacted to him . . . "Yeah. Friends. Sure." He started to back away, but she reached out and grabbed his arm, stopping him.

"What's wrong with being friends?"

He shook his head. "Nothing, Clary. Nothing at all. Except I don't _feel_ friendly about you."

"You—you don't even know me."

Jace laughed, a painful, angry laugh. "Don't you think I know that? Don't you think I see how messed up this is? I _know_ I don't _know_ you, but it doesn't change the fact that I _feel_ this . . . something. I don't know what the hell it is but I know it's not God-damned friendship."

"What do you want from me?" Her voice shook. "I'm trying here."

"Are you?" Jace moved toward her again. "Are you really? Because if you are, if you really want to just be friends, then I'll try my damndest to do that despite all of this, but I need you to tell me that that's the God's honest truth." He knew he was being an asshole, towering over her, demanding things from her, but damn it all to hell he felt like she was lying. How could she not feel this? "Just tell me. No hiding. No games. I won't push you into anything. But I have to know. Do you feel this too?" He pressed his hand against his chest, where he could feel his heart slamming against his ribs, where it was clenched so tight he could barely breathe. Reaching out, he took her hand and brought it up to where his was and held it there. "Do you _feel_ this?"

She just stood there, staring at him with her mouth hanging open. It wasn't what he'd hoped for. Actually, he didn't know what the hell he wanted; he just wanted . . . something, anything but this. Resignedly, he pulled back and let her hand fall from his chest.

"Okay, I guess that's my answer—"

Before he had the chance to finish the last word, Clary's hands were on his face, pulling him down to her. Jace barely had time to close his mouth before hers was on his. Soft and warm. Full and hesitant.

She was kissing him.

_She_ was kissing _him_.

It took everything in him not to grab her and hold her against him, to open his mouth and kiss her properly. But this was her show, so he let her lead. The kiss was small and chaste and barely even there, but it was still her kissing him. It was her wanting him in the same way he wanted her.

And he could feel it everywhere, living, breathing, growing into something he never would have expected.

And it was over far too soon.

Only air lingered between them as she pulled back. "That's what I feel," she whispered, her mouth still close to his, her breath panting fast and hard and hot, just like his. "I don't like it and I don't understand it. But that's what I feel." She dropped her hands from his face. "But I just _can't_ right now. Okay? I just can't. Not until . . ."

It took Jace a moment to compose himself enough to answer. "Until what?"

"Until I know I can trust you."

Trust him? That was all? He could do that. He _would_ do that. "Just tell me what to do and I'll do it."

She looked up at him, her eyes pleading. "You can be my friend."

Jace felt like the world had just dropped on top of him, flattening him into the ground. It was not what he wanted. He wanted to explore this feeling, to figure out what the hell it was and why she was the one making him feel it.

With great effort, he met her stare. He didn't want to agree to this, but she looked so wary, so disappointed already, like she knew what he was going to say before he even said it. And, well, he just wasn't going to give her the satisfaction of being right. He was going to prove her wrong, no matter how much ass it sucked.

"Okay, Clary. Okay." The words felt like acid in his mouth. Empty syllables burning holes through his tongue and cheeks, working their way down his throat and to his stomach. But some way, somehow, he would make them true. He held out his hand. "Friends."

Surprise transformed Clary's face, and for the first time, she didn't look like she was scared of him, didn't look like she just wished she could run away and hide. A genuine smile stretched over her lips as she took his hand, that same fire lancing Jace's skin when she did. But when she let him go, her fingers slipped out of his slowly, slower than they had any of the times before, as if maybe she wasn't quite sure she wanted to let go at all. Jace wanted to hold on, but he didn't, and when she looked up at him after, even though it was harder than hell to admit, he knew he'd just taken the first step. Not one that he needed or particularly wanted, but it was the one she needed him to take.

* * *

><p><em>Long AN (You can skip unless you have questions—this may answer some):_

_I know, guys. I *know.* But . . . baby steps. It may not seem like they've moved forward, but they have. I promise they have. I know some of y'all just want the LOVE already, but this is just slower building. I'm sorry, you're going to have to wait. Those of you who have read my stories before know that I just write what the characters give me, right? Well, for this chapter I got a WHOLE LOT of awkwardness and confused feelings from both Jace and Clary._

_Some might also be wondering: Why aren't they focusing on WTH they're going to do about this baby? Well, in order to figure out how they feel about that, they seem to need to figure out how they feel about each other first—at least that's what I'm getting from Jace especially. He doesn't seem to be able to wrap his mind around her being pregnant yet—but it's that way for a lot of guys. It really doesn't hit them until there are physical signs (i.e. the girl starting to show). So, I think we'll see more of that from him later. Right now he's trying, in his own way, to make sense out of everything. He honestly DOES NOT KNOW what he's feeling at all. He knows he's feeling something: curiosity, attraction, like, want…he just can't name it, and he's trying so hard to figure it out._

_I think it's pretty obvious that Clary is feeling a lot of the same things; she just has a very hard time opening up and trusting anyone. She's had a lot of people walk out on her in her life (Simon, her mom, her brother—in a way, her father –when he decided being obsessed w/football was better than being a husband and father). She needs some sort of proof that Jace is going to stick around before she'll allow him in. I can understand her hesitancy. This is a huge deal for her._

_:( Poor kids. I really feel bad for them._

_Until next time, XOXO ~ddpjclaf_


	9. I Was Thinking That Felt Pretty Good

******The character names of The Mortal Instruments are owned by Cassandra Clare. The original content, ideas and intellectual property of this story are owned by ddpjclaf, 2011. Please do not copy, reproduce, or translate without express written permission.******

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Nine - "I Was Thinking That Felt Pretty Good"<strong>

_*Unbeta'd._

_Chapter Songs:_

_**Flying High – Jem _

_**Push – Matchbox 20 (non-acoustic version, though all playlist had was acoustic. :( )_

_**If You Were Here – Cary Brothers_

* * *

><p>"You did <em>what<em>?" Isabelle slid on her stomach down to the foot of the bed, where Clary sat on the floor with her back against the end, trying so hard to draw anything but Jace: Jace's eyes, Jace's hair, Jace's hands, Jace's mouth . . . Jace's mouth. She swallowed back the memory of that mouth and drew the river instead. A cop-out, she knew, but it was better than the alternative. At least it was better than admitting to Isabelle and herself that she hadn't been able to think of anything else since the night before. Isabelle continued, "You kissed him and . . . then said you wanted to be friends?"

"Well," Clary held her hand up, her pencil balancing between her fingers, "technically, I told him I wanted to be friends _before _I kissed him."

Isabelle's mouth opened then closed, and then opened again. "Wow. Way to get your point across."

Clary tossed her sketchbook and pencil to the ground and lifted her hands to her hair. "I don't need a lecture, Iz, okay? I know it wasn't really the best thing to do, but he was all over me about how I felt and how he felt and I just . . ."

"You just what?"

She lifted her fingers to her mouth, tracing over her lips and still feeling the heat of his on them. "I just did it."

"Mmhmm. I would have thought you'd have learned your lesson by now, since 'just doing it' was how you got in this predicament in the first place."

Clary picked up her sketchbook from where she'd dropped it and flung it back at Isabelle. Izzy put up her hands to block it, but not before Clary caught a glimpse of Isabelle's satisfied grin.

"That wasn't funny."

"It so _was_ funny and you know it." Isabelle flipped over onto her back, her long, black hair hanging over the end of the bed and sweeping the floor. "Seriously though, what were you thinking?"

Clary sighed and laid her head back against the mattress. She was so tired. Tired of thinking. Of feeling. Of everything. "I was thinking that here was this really cute boy telling me he liked me—or that he thought maybe he liked me—even though he doesn't know why, even though I'm pregnant, even though I'm a Morgenstern and he's a Wayland, and that he remembered kissing me and it wasn't bad." She reached over and twirled a piece of Isabelle's hair around her finger. "And I was thinking that felt pretty nice." What she didn't add was why it felt nice: because someone seemed to want her. Someone noticed her.

Isabelle sighed one of those super girly sighs that usually made Clary want to roll her eyes, but this time she almost felt like sighing too.

"Then he put my hand on his chest and asked me if I could feel what he felt . . . And I could," Clary said, her voice just above a whisper. "So I kissed him."

She dropped Isabelle's hair and picked up her sketchbook, opening to the page she was working on before in an effort to stop herself from dwelling. But she couldn't stop her mind from going back to that moment: the softness of his t-shirt against her palm, the heat of his skin underneath, and the slamming of his heart under all of that. And when her mouth touched his, it felt so different from when she'd kissed other boys. It enraptured her and held her trapped inside that one moment, that one feeling, like this was where she belonged, with her hand on this boy's chest, her lips brushing his, and their hearts beating the same staccato rhythm in triple time. Everything that had been plaguing her, all the doubts and fears and questions disappeared for that one second and she was just her again.

When she finally pulled away, his eyes stayed closed a second longer and his mouth fell open, releasing the breath he seemed to be holding. And when he opened them again, there was something there she'd never seen in the eyes of a boy before. Something wondering but knowing, something she was pretty sure was in hers too.

"So why not just let it develop and see where it goes?" Isabelle asked. "Why put the breaks on it?"

Ever since Clary had left Jace, she'd been asking herself the same question. It would have been so easy to let herself go, to kiss him again, to let him kiss her, but then she remembered. She remembered, and it all became very clear.

"Because I'm pregnant, Iz. I'm pregnant and he's the one who made me this way. I can't afford to let these . . . these . . . _feelings_ or whatever they are control me. I can't let him in just to watch him walk away. I just . . . I just can't do that."

"But maybe he won't, Clary," Isabelle said, peering back at her. "Maybe he won't walk away."

"Maybe he won't," Clary agreed. "But he might. He doesn't know me. He says he wants to, and I'll give him that chance—as friends. But he might decide I'm not what he thinks I am—actually, I can pretty much guarantee I'm not. I'm not that girl from the party. I'm not fun and silly, and I definitely don't hook up with random guys. That's what he thinks I'm like. What if that's what he wants? I just can't jump into something like that. Not now. Not when I'm in this situation."

"But I think you forget that _he's_ in this situation too."

"And I think _you_ forget that this isn't as simple as 'hey, you're pretty cute, wanna go steady?' either. Forget that we've already done . . . everything . . . you always seem to push aside the fact that our fathers' hate each other. Like, truly and completely _hate_ each other. There's no way they'd allow this."

"Since when have you ever let what your ass of a father wanted stop you?" Isabelle flipped over onto her stomach and pressed her chin into Clary's shoulder. "If you want him, you should just take him. Screw the rest of 'em!"

Clary laughed and leaned her head against the side of Izzy's. "That's just the thing. I don't know if I want him or not."

"You do." Isabelle pushed herself up and hoped off the bed, moving to stand in front of Clary and heft her to her feet. "You'll see. I predict a very short friendship and a very hot first kiss." She pulled Clary toward the bedroom door.

"I've already kissed him, Iz. Probably a lot."

"The ones you don't remember don't count—and neither does that pathetic attempt at one last night." They stepped out into the hall. "Everyone knows if it doesn't involve tongue it's basically null."

"If what doesn't involve tongue?" A boy's voice came from further down the hall.

Clary turned to find Jonathan exiting his room and walking toward them. His bag—which she assumed was filled with various sports equipment—hung over one shoulder, and he wore a pair of basketball shorts, a white t-shirt, and a baseball cap.

"Kissing, Jonathan," Isabelle said. "We were discussing what constituted a real kiss. I say tongue must be involved. What do you say?"

Jonathan looked from one girl to the next, his brows raised. "For you and anyone else, Izzy, I'd say yes, tongue it is. But for her," he pointed at Clary, "there will be no tongue."

"Aww, come on, Jon, can't your baby sister have a little fun?" Isabelle asked, an evil glint in her eye. Clary wanted to stab it.

"Hell no! If any boy sticks anything out at her, you let me know and I'll cut it off."

"Okay." Clary held her hands up and walked toward the stairs. "I think that's my cue to exit." Just as she stepped onto the first stair, a painful pinch in her lower abdomen caused her to freeze and inhale sharply. Her hand cupped the area right below her belly button, and she slumped forward, gripping the banister as she tried to breathe through the pain. She'd never felt anything like it before and had no basis by which to compare it. All she knew was that it hurt.

Isabelle was at her side in an instant, her hand surrounding Clary's upper arm and helping to hold her up. "What's wrong?" she whispered, but even with the quietness of her voice, Clary could hear her panic.

"I don't know," Clary said, feeling the pain start to ebb as soon as it had come. "I think—I think maybe it was a cramp?" She stood straight and took in a deep breath. She could still feel a twinge of the pain, but it was nearly gone.

"What's going on?" Jonathan came up behind them. "You sick, baby sis?"

Clary shook her head and looked at Isabelle in panic. What was she supposed to say to him? Isabelle was no help at all and just stared back at her with wide eyes. "No, I'm okay. Just a cramp."

"Whoa!" Jonathan stepped back, his hands in the air. "What have I told you about talking about your lady business in front of me? Respect the boundaries of the brother-sister relationship." And just like that, the worried look slid from his face and he was himself again. "So, today. You. Me. The park?" He waggled his brows. "What do you say?"

"Aww, a date with your brother. I'm touched," Isabelle jabbed. "Speaking of which, I need to get going anyway. Max has some sort of 'play date' I'm supposed to oversee." She rolled her eyes. "He's nine for crying out loud." Isabelle bounded down a few stairs before stopping and turning back toward Clary. "Listen, I have a date later, but if you need to—" she glanced at Jonathan, who was fiddling with the zipper on his bag, then back to Clary, "erm, _hang_, just give me a call."

Clary was about to ask who Isabelle had a date with, when it dawned on her. Sebastian. "Sure. But I think I can manage to not go insane with this guy," she thrust her thumb over her shoulder in Jonathan's direction, "for one evening."

"Hey, now," Jonathan came up beside Clary and slung his arm across her shoulders, "I'm more fun than you can handle, Clare-bear. You'll see."

Clary rolled her eyes and waved Isabelle off. Her friend gave her what looked to be a sympathetic smile then turned abruptly, a flourish of black hair flowing out behind her as she made her way down the stairs and out of sight. The click of the front door let Clary know she was gone. A stitch of panic came over her when she realized she was all alone with her brother. Other than Simon and Isabelle, Jonathan knew her better than anyone. What if she got sick or had more of that pain? What would she say to him when she didn't have Isabelle's crazy excuses with her? And would he see through any lie she told anyway?

She swallowed back her fear and peered over at her brother. "So," she gestured to his bag, "I see you have sports in mind."

"Oh. Yeah, well, I need to stay in good form even when I'm home. I thought we could throw it around." He glanced at her. "You know, like old times."

"Yeah, all right." She looked down at her attire: a pair of tight jeans, a camisole top, and a black over-shirt. "But I should probably change. These jeans are too tight to do any sort of running in." She turned back to her room.

"Right," Jonathan said, a smile in his voice. "Eating too many sweets again, baby sis? Getting a little thick around the middle?"

Clary halted just in front of her door, but the sound of Jonathan's receding laughter told her he hadn't noticed. She swallowed hard and walked into her room, closing the door behind her. It wasn't an odd thing for Jonathan to say. He'd always teased her like that because she was so small and thin, and she knew he meant nothing by it. But the thing was, that morning she had noticed that her pants were a little harder to button up.

She crossed the room into the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror. First she looked at herself from the front, everything looked the same: bright green eyes, mess of vibrant red hair, thin, petite form with little to no curves. And then she turned to the side and lifted her shirt over her belly. To anyone else she would have looked like any other thin teenage girl, but to her, she noticed the subtle change. Instead of the perfectly flat, toned stomach she'd always known, her flesh now appeared a little thicker, a little more curved out where it once curved in.

She ran her fingers over her abdomen, letting them linger on the section just under her belly button. _It's not noticeable_, she told herself. And it really wasn't.

But someday, someday soon, it would be.

.o.O.o.

After two rounds to the bathroom to almost throw up, trying on six pairs of pants before she found one that was comfortable enough to run around in, and arguing with Jonathan about walking verses driving to the park, Clary was finally ready to go. It was unseasonably warm for October—somewhere in the low seventies—and the scent of fallen leaves and something she could only describe as crisp, cleanliness permeated the air. Hues of red, orange, and yellow made the trees look like they were on fire and added to the feeling of unease that came over Clary.

In the past, fall had always been her favorite season, not that summer and all its warmth and sunshine wasn't awesome in and of itself, but fall was an artist's dream. So much color and vibrancy, and even though that color signified death, it only made Clary's artistic side come alive.

It also, unfortunately, made her think about her mother.

Clary's mother, Jocelyn, always used to tell her that color was rousing. It didn't have to be much at all, just a splash of green or a drop of red, a hint of yellow, but that drop or splash or hint held millions of possibilities. Color could be an object, a mood, a song. It could be love or hate or remorse. It could be anything she wanted it to be because color was pure inspiration. Her mother said that Clary was color for her, that when she looked at her she could see all that was possible and beautiful in the world, and as long as she had Clary, she had all the inspiration she'd ever need.

Her mother was a liar.

A soft breeze twisted between Clary and Jonathan, picking up several leaves and twirling them about in front of them on the sidewalk. She sighed and leaned forward to catch one. When she did, she held it up and studied the way the veins fanned through the bright red, and how the edges were browned and starting to decay—much like her relationship with Jocelyn.

Clary tossed the leaf to the ground and rubbed her hands over her bare arms. It was times like this that she thought most about Jocelyn, when her blood sang with creativity and the world offered her an abundance of motivation.

She also thought of her while she puked her guts up every morning, wondering—wishing—her mother was there to hold her hair, to tell her everything was going to be okay. But she wasn't there. She was off traipsing around the city with her sophisticated artist friends and sleeping on Luke's "couch." Clary wondered if her mother thought of her and Jonathan and her dad while she lived her dream. Did she wonder if they missed her? Did she miss them? Did she have any idea how much Clary hated but still needed her?

Did she even freaking care?

"Have you talked to Mom lately," she asked her brother, not really sure she wanted to know but having to at the same time.

"Not recently. Why? Have you?"

Clary shook her head. "Not since my birthday."

Jonathan looked at her and frowned. "But that's been—"

"Two weeks. I know."

Jonathan turned away but kept his eyes to the ground. "Maybe she's just been busy. She has that big show coming up . . ."

"Do you really believe that, Jon?" They had reached the park, so Clary stopped at the edge near the playground and glanced up at her brother. The sound of kids squealing, swings squeaking, and a basketball bouncing against pavement filled the silence between them. The look on his face said more than his words. She narrowed her eyes. "What do you know?"

"Nothing, really. It's just . . . things are bad between Mom and Dad right now."

"Duh. They've been bad for awhile now. That's nothing new."

Jonathan met her eyes. "Yeah. But I mean really bad."

Clary shook her head and looked away, her eyes glued to the kids on the park. They laughed and jumped and played as if this was as good as it was going to get. Clary wished she could tell them it was. A cutting smile crept over her lips. "She's screwing around, isn't she? With Luke?"

"I don't know, Clary."

"Really?" She glanced back. "You really don't know anything? You're not just saying that to shut me up?"

"I really don't know. Dad seems to think she is, but she keeps denying it. Saying they're just friends." He adjusted the strap of his bag on his shoulder.

"Oh, come on. What other reason would she have for never coming home?"

Jonathan held up his hand in a gesture of uncertainty, but when his eyes followed, they focused on something over Clary's shoulder. His brows furrowed and he shifted his weight to one foot. Clary glanced behind her in the direction Jonathan was looking. She saw nothing but the madhouse of the playground and a couple of guys playing basketball on the court.

She looked back at Jonathan and frowned. "What's up?"

He blinked as if coming out of a daze and met her eyes. "What?"

"Where did you go just then?"

His gaze flittered to the space over her shoulder once more then back to her face. He opened his mouth to speak, and then snapped it shut, reaching into his pocket and drawing out some cash. "Listen," he held out a ten dollar bill to her, "you said you were hungry. There's a little shop just across the street. Why don't you get a few things and meet me back here."

Clary stared hard at him as she slowly reached out and drew the money from his fingers. "You're acting weird. What's wrong?"

"Nothing." His normal "Jonathan grin" appeared back on his face, but Clary could tell it was forced. "Just don't want my baby sis to starve."

Clary scowled and started to walk past him. She didn't believe a word he said, but had no reason to question him beyond a gut feeling. "You'd better not be using this as an excuse to ditch me."

Jonathan feigned hurt. "Would I do that?"

"You _have_ done that. Remember the zoo? You left me standing in front of the monkey cage for thirty minutes while you watched from behind the bathrooms."

He shrugged. "I just thought you should spend a bit more time with your real family."

Clary slugged him in the shoulder and pointed in his face. "I'm spitting in your sandwich." She turned and started to walk in the direction of the street.

"I wouldn't expect anything less, Clare-bear."

She rolled her eyes and contemplated flipping him off over her shoulder, but decided against it, considering the number of kids playing right behind him. Just before she reached the street, she turned back around and Jonathan was nowhere to be found. Frowning, she scanned the entire area, feeling a wave of annoyance that maybe he had decided to play his lame disappearing act joke on her once again, when she finally spotted him. He was walking with purpose toward the tennis and basketball courts, his white-blond hair poking out from beneath his cap. There was no one on the tennis courts, so Clary assumed he knew the guys playing one on one on the basketball court. Clary didn't recognize them, though they both wore baseball caps and weren't facing her, so they definitely could have been some of Jonathan's friends from school.

Typical. _He'd better not ditch me for those losers_, she thought. Turning back toward the street and watching for cars before she crossed, Clary grinned to herself. Oh, she most definitely was going to spit in his sandwich.

.o.O.o.

"Dude," Sebastian stopped in the middle of the court, sweat pouring from his forehead, and bent over with his hands on his knees. "One second." He held up a finger before lowering his hand again and panting.

Jace chuckled and circled him, the ball bouncing against the pavement and kicking dust into the air. "What's wrong, Seb? Giving up already?"

"Screw you." Sebastian peered up at Jace, still panting, with one eye closed against the glare of the sun. He slipped off his hat and ran his hand through his soaked black hair before replacing the cap once again. "What the hell's gotten into you today? Didn't you already run, like, twenty-five miles this morning?"

"Five." Jace lifted the ball and tipped it toward the basket. It rolled off his fingers and sailed through the air, circling the rim twice before falling through. Damn. He was good, even at basketball. "Maybe you should consider it, so you won't be so out of shape. I kind of need you to protect my ass out on the field."

"Shit." Sebastian groaned as he straightened and stretched. "I think you need to find something else to occupy your mind besides football. Like, oh, I don't know, taking advantage of some of the hot ass that's being offered to you."

Little did Sebastian know, but Jace's mind was already occupied, though probably not by what Sebastian would expect. He hadn't been able to stop thinking about Clary's plea. The one for him to be her friend. How the hell was he supposed to do that when one tiny kiss made his entire body react like some pathetic lovesick asshole? Jace was used to wanting girls. That was an emotion, or need, or whatever people called it, he could identify with and that was easy to take care of. But there weren't enough cold showers or "Jace's happy time" in the world that could take away this other feeling he had. The one that clawed at his chest and fluttered in his stomach. Jesus, he sounded like a damn girl.

"There's more to life than getting laid, Sebastian." Jace took another shot, but the ball bounced off the corner of the rim.

Sebastian froze and stared at Jace with a look of revulsion. "Dude. You did not just say that. Are you eighteen or eighty?"

Jace passed the ball to Sebastian. "I'm focused on a goal, Seb."

"So am I." Sebastian started to dribble, and Jace was on him, arms spread, body blocking. "It's called 'getting as much action as possible before I need Viagra.'" He spun and jumped up, the ball swishing through the net. Jace ran to retrieve it. "That's what you do at eighteen. I'm surprised you didn't know that."

"Here's what I know," Jace faked to the left and got around Sebastian to the right. "One: I'm not complaining about the amount of 'action' I'm getting. And two: I don't ever plan on needing Viagra or any other drug to help get me up. And three: Can't you think about anything besides sex?" He tried another fake but Sebastian was all over him.

"Of course I can."

"Oh, yeah? Like what?" Jace spun to the left and jumped up to shoot—

"Head," Sebastian said.

Jace faltered just as the ball left his fingers and it clanged off the backboard, rolling across the court to the other side, where it was stopped by the shoe of another guy leaning against the post of the opposite basket. He bent and retrieved the ball.

"Well, it's a good thing basketball's not your calling, Wayland." Jonathan Morgenstern stepped onto the court, tossing the ball up into the air and catching it again before throwing it back to Jace. "Though if you ask me, football's not either."

"Is that so?" Jace asked. "So why is your coach coming to my games and trying to entice me then?"

Jonathan charged across the court, only stopping when he was nose to nose with Jace. "That's a lie and you know it." Anger dripped from his words, but Jace saw the panic in his eyes and he knew he had him.

Jace shrugged and turned to shoot another basket. This time it was all net. He looked back at Jonathan. "Whatever you need to tell yourself to sleep at night, Morgenstern."

"He wouldn't come for you. You're not half the player I am. You're a God-damned Wayland! He wouldn't—"

"I beat your ass every year we played against each other. Face it, you're shit. And you know you're shit."

Jonathan pitched forward and grasped Jace by the shirt. "Be careful, Wayland, or I'll just have to shut that arrogant mouth of yours."

Jace grabbed Jonathan's wrists and wrenched them off from him. "Keep your damn hands off me. Wouldn't want you infecting me with that Morgenstern scum."

"You're lucky there are kids around because I would love to rearrange that pretty little face of yours."

Jace grinned. "Oh, come on now, Jonathan. If we're going to go there you may as well admit the real reason." He leaned in. "I could beat your ass with my good hand tied behind my back. No contest."

Jonathan grabbed Jace by the shirt again. "You son of a bit—"

"You have _got_ to be kidding me!" A high-pitched voice came from beside them.

Jonathan and Jace turned toward the sound. Clary stood not two feet from them, clutching a white paper bag, her hair a mess of red curls, and her bright eyes gleaming with anger. Jonathan slowly loosened his grip on Jace's shirt and lowered his hand. Jace could do nothing but stare. He'd seen her angry before, and it was the same now, but there was something else poking through that anger, something he knew was directed at him. Disappointment.

She turned to her brother and narrowed her eyes. "I leave you alone for five minutes and this is what you do? Go pick a fight?"

"But Clare—"

"No!" Clary held up her hand. "I don't want to hear it, Jonathan." Her eyes danced between the two of them. Back and forth, back and forth, as if she were looking for a reason besides the only one there could be. "Aren't you sick of this? This . . . this stupid feud? Aren't you sick of hating each other for no reason?"

"I don't hate him for no reason." Jonathan glared at Jace. "I hate him because he's a no-talent dick. He's always been a dick and he'll always be a dick."

"And you're not?" she said. "I heard you last night. You and dad." Jonathan's eyes widened and his face paled. "I heard what you said. How are you any better than him?" Clary thrust her hand in Jace's direction.

Jace scowled "Hey, I didn't—"

"Yes," her gaze snared his, "you did. You're just as bad. Goading him, egging him on. What are you both trying to prove? Who can piss the furthest? Well, guess what?" She thrust her arms out. "You both have dicks. You can both piss. Congratulations. Unfortunately, you're both just a couple of stupid clones of our stupid fathers." Her cheeks were flushed with anger. "You know what?" She held up her hands and shook her head. "Fine. You want to fight? Fine. You want to hate each other? Fine. I don't care. I don't freaking _care_! But it's just . . . it's just such a waste because this stupid crap didn't have to be passed on to us. We could have been bigger than this. You two are just too selfish and pathetic to realize it."

With that, Clary spun and started off toward the bathrooms near the edge of the park, her hair trailing behind her like a blaze of fire. Which seemed appropriate since she'd just incinerated both Jonathan and Jace to ash.

Jonathan started to follow when she called out:

"Don't you dare follow me, Jonathan Morgenstern!"

Jonathan's shoulders dropped, but he turned to glare at Jace anyway. "Just you wait, asshole. You come anywhere near what's mine and I'll bury you." He continued away from the court in the opposite direction Clary went.

Jace swallowed hard. He knew Jonathan meant his position as SEU's quarterback, but Jace was thinking of something far more personal of Jonathan's that he wanted. Something he figured Jonathan probably would kill for.

Sebastian stepped up beside Jace, his eyes trained in the direction Clary had gone. He whistled. "Damn. Shortcake is a Morgenstern."

"What? Who?"

"Shortcake."

"Why the hell are you calling her that?"

"You know, because she's short and red-headed . . . like Strawberry Shortcake."

Jace shook his head and moved over to where he'd dropped his bag earlier. "You're an idiot." He shoved the ball into the bag and stood, throwing the strap over his shoulder. His eyes focused on Clary's retreating figure, and he wanted to go to her, to explain that this hadn't been his doing, that Jonathan had ambushed him while he was minding his own business. And then it dawned on him what Sebastian had said. "Wait. How the hell did you know she was the one? You said you didn't remember either."

"I recognized her when I met her after the game last night. She was with Isabelle."

Jace looked after her again. She was almost gone, only the red of her hair standing out in the crowd.

"The question is," Sebastian said, "how long have you known who she was?"

"Long enough."

Sebastian whistled again. "Dude, you're in some deep shit with that one. But damn, that was hot."

Jace scowled and shoved Sebastian away. Partly because he didn't want Sebastian looking at Clary at all, least of all in a way where he thought she was hot, but also because _he_ didn't want to look at her like she was hot. It was hard enough to not think about her that way to begin with. But he had to admit, as much as he hated having his ass handed to him by anyone—especially a girl—when Clary did it, it actually was sort of hot.

Jace sighed. "Shit. I know."

.o.O.o.

Assholes. Both of them.

Clary fumed all the way to the building that housed the park's restrooms. Her eyes stung with angry tears, which was not like her at all. Clary hated crying, but lately she couldn't help it. The tears came whether or not she wanted them. She swiped at her eyes as she passed the swing sets filled with happy, laughing children. The sad thing was she could remember not long ago being one of those kids, being happy, being carefree. A sardonic laugh choked in her throat at the irony of it all.

She didn't know why she was surprised; she knew what Jonathan was willing to do in the name of this stupid feud. Hadn't she heard the lengths he would agree to last night? And it wasn't that that didn't disappoint her, it did. She just thought the whole thing was so freaking stupid and pointless. But what disappointed her most was Jace. Just last night he'd told her he had feelings for her—convoluted, confused feelings, but feelings nonetheless. And then he went and fought with her brother. Called him "Morgenstern scum." She was a Morgenstern. Calling Jonathan that was as good as calling her that. Didn't Jace understand that?

"Clary!"

Clary groaned and hurried faster toward the drab, cinder block building. She didn't want to talk to him now. "Leave me alone, Jace."

"Wait! Please, just wait."

She drew in a breath and spun to face him. Jace pulled to a stop, a look of surprise flashing over his face. Apparently, he hadn't expected her to stop. She crossed her arms over her chest and raised her brows in expectation. His arms floundered at his sides for a moment, as if he wasn't quite sure what to do now that he had her attention. He took another step toward her, and Clary moved one back.

"Don't get too close," she said, "wouldn't want to infect you with some of my 'Morgenstern scum.'"

He grimaced and cupped his hand around the back of his neck. His face flamed with embarrassment. "I didn't mean that."

Clary rolled her eyes and turned away, starting toward the restrooms once again. "Don't do that."

Jace grabbed her arm and pulled her to a stop. "Don't do what?"

"Lie," she said. "Respect me enough not to lie to my face. I heard you say it and I saw your face when you did. You meant every word."

"Okay, fine. I meant it. To him." Clary tried to pull away, but Jace held on tighter, pulling her body closer to his. "But I don't mean it about you. I don't think that about you. You have to know that."

Finally, she looked at him and fought like crazy to keep her breathing steady. He was gazing down at her with a look that said he was sorry, his eyes brimming with remorse, his fair hair sticking out from beneath his cap and curling up over the edges, just like the last time she'd seen him in it. But she couldn't let that sway her. "That's just the thing, Jace. I don't know that. I don't know you at all. I keep trying to, when we talk. I keep trying to piece together who you are, but you seem to be two different people. One with me, and one everywhere else. Who are you really? This guy, "she gestured between him and her, "or the one I saw back there?"

Jace took a step back. "That's not fair. You can't judge me on how I act with your _brother_. What about how he is with me? Is that who he is always?"

Clary bit her lower lip and looked away, because, dang it, he had a point. Jonathan had been being an ass too.

"See." He stepped forward again, and this time Clary stayed put, even though the closer he got the more unsettled she felt. "That's just guy stuff. It's just—"

"Feud stuff." She glared up at him. "I know exactly what it is. I've been watching it with my father since I was a kid, and so have you with yours. I don't want to watch it again." She swatted at a piece of hair that kept flying in her face, and felt a twinge of that same pain from earlier start in her lower abdomen. "Isn't this hard enough? This whole—us—what's going on with us? Why do we have to have . . . that . . . on top of it? I don't want to deal with that, Jace. I won't."

"Okay," he said, and reached out to tuck the rogue strand of hair behind her ear. Her breath caught at the gesture, of the feel of his fingers as they lingered at her temple. "I'll try not to be an asshole to your brother."

"Great," Clary said, her voice thick with sarcasm. "Thanks so much."

She turned and started for the third or fourth time toward the bathrooms. She really had to pee and the pain was starting again, but this time it was lower and slower, more a radiating ache than a sharp stab.

Jace caught up to her and there was laughter in his voice. "What? I'm sorry, but it's no secret we don't like each other. Even if he wasn't a—"

Clary glared and he snapped his mouth shut, pressing his lips into a thin line. She knew what he was going to say.

"The point is," he started again, "we haven't liked each other for a long time. No matter what our names are, I'm pretty sure your brother and I wouldn't be friends. It's sort of the nature of sports, of school rivals. It just is. And I'm pretty sure our . . . situation . . . isn't going to endear me to him any better."

"Probably not." Clary drew in a breath, the pain spreading through her entire abdomen and growing worse the further she walked. She tried to slow her pace, but it didn't abate. Crap. Crap, crap, crap. Not now. Not in front of him.

"But the thing is," Jace said, quietly, "I don't really give a shit if he likes me." His eyes met hers. "I only care if you do."

Clary stared back at him, feeling that same feeling from last night. The one that made her kiss him. The one that made her want to do it again.

Then, before she could think or speak or anything, something tore inside her—at least that's how it felt. Clary's breath caught and she stopped abruptly, doubling over and cupping her stomach with her hand. Jace stopped beside her, and she felt his hands on her, one grasping her arm and one around her back. He was speaking to her, but she couldn't hear anything over the blood rushing in her ears. The only thing that existed was the pain, the pulsing, stabbing pain. Something wet trailed down her face and it took her a few moments to realize they were tears.

"Jesus, Clary, what's wrong?"

"Just . . ." she squeaked and tried to breathe. "Just give me a second. It goes away."

"It—it goes away? You've had this before?"

She nodded, a few more tears streaming down her cheeks as the pain continued. "This morning," she managed.

"Is it . . . it is because of the . . . the . . ." He couldn't finish the sentence. He couldn't say the word. She couldn't blame him. She didn't know if she'd even said it yet.

"I don't know."

"Don't you think you should find out?" He sounded panicked. "What if something's wrong?"

Clary couldn't speak, so she just shook her head. Jace's hold on her tightened.

"You need to get it checked out. I'll take you to the hospital—"

"No!" Clary finally managed to speak.

"Don't be stupid, Clary. You can't mess around with this—"

"No, I mean," she panted through the pain, "I can't go to the hospital. My parents will find out. I don't want them to find out yet."

"But—"

She raised her gaze to his, and he looked just as freaked out as he sounded. "Please. I need more time, okay? Just . . . I'll go to the clinic on Monday. This will stop in a minute."

Jace looked like he wanted to argue, like he wanted to make her go. Creases formed in his forehead and he cursed. "Damn it. All right. No hospital. But I'm taking you to the clinic now. You're not waiting until Monday." Without waiting for her to respond, he bent and slipped one of his arms under her legs and one across her back, scooping her up and cradling her against him. Even through the hurt, Clary had to try very hard not to like it. "And don't give me any shit about carrying you. I'm not doing it to look like a savior or some macho asshole, you just look like you're either going to puke or pass out if you walk anymore."

"My brother was right," Clary said through gritted teeth, "you are a dick. I'm rethinking that bit about not hating you, I kinda do."

"No, you don't," Jace said as he walked toward the street where she hoped he had a car parked, because she definitely did not want him carrying her all the way there. "You wish you did, but you don't."

And damn him, he was right.

* * *

><p><em>Sorry for cutting it off there, guys, but the next scene is pretty big for Jace and Clary, and this chapter is already almost 7,000 words! I had planned on including it originally, but it's just not going to fit (or you'd have a 12,000+ word chapter, and I think this next part deserves its own chapter!). <em>

_But, let's discuss what we *did* get in this chapter: we got some insight into how Clary is feeling about the kiss. Some brother sister cuteness and clarity on how both are dealing with Jocelyn's—whatever. We got some hot boy confrontation and a little idea on how the feud is affecting the younger generation, and how it's going to be a problem for Jace and Clary. We also got a new pregnancy symptom!_

_I'm going to say this now, so there are no questions: NO, CLARY IS NOT HAVING A MISCARRIAGE. Pregnancy comes with many scary symptoms and complications. Be prepared to see some of them. _

_Until next time, XOXO ~ddpjclaf_


	10. I Think You Might Be Worth It

ddpjclaf

****The character names of The Mortal Instruments are owned by Cassandra Clare. The original content, ideas and intellectual property of this story are owned by ddpjclaf, 2011. Please do not copy, reproduce, or translate without express written permission.****

**Chapter Ten - "I Think You Might Be Worth It"**

_A big thanks to Lightlacedwithbeauty for a quick editing job! _

_There's some technical stuff/language in here. I hope you understand it well enough. Hope you all enjoy. :)_

_Chapter Songs:_

_**The Art of Falling – Greg Holden_

_**Open Your Eyes – Snow Patrol_

_**Holding on and Letting Go – Ross Copperman_

Jace had never been to the free clinic before. Of course he'd known about it—people at school talked about the massive bags of condoms they gave out if you even suggested you might, possibly, in the near future, be considering having sex—but he'd never even thought to go. This place was for girls who wanted to get on the pill without their parents knowing, or guys who were too scared to buy their condoms at the store (aka Sebastian). Jace wasn't a sissy and he didn't want the cheap shit they gave away at the clinic anyway; he wanted the good stuff. He wanted the ones with less chance of breaking, so he never had to step one damn foot in this place.

So much for that now.

He sat in one of the most uncomfortable plastic chairs on the face of the earth, with his face buried behind a magazine about parenting or motherhood or some other shit he, as a teenage boy, had no desire to look at but pretended to in order to cover his face. God, was he ever thankful he'd at least worn the baseball cap. What kind of shit would he get if anyone saw him there? He'd never live it down.

Besides him and two other women seated several rows in front of him, the room was empty. At least they didn't look young enough to be girls from his school; that he could be thankful of. But that didn't meant they wouldn't know who he was if they got a good look. His face had been on the front of local sports more times than he could count, and he was often recognized in public. Usually he loved the notoriety, but not today. Not in this place.

Near the front of the room was a long, narrow "office area" cordoned off by a half-wall and Plexiglas. When he and Clary had come inside, they'd had to speak to the gray-haired woman, with glasses as thick as a bottle, through a slot made in the bottom of the glass. It took them three tries before she'd understood what they needed. At the very ends of that wall were some of those stupid looking magazine/brochure holders that were filled with pamphlets on birth control, pregnancy, STDs, teenage parenting, adoption, etcetra, etcetra. Jace avoided those, like touching them would give him leprosy.

The nurse had come out and whisked Clary through a door off to the side before they'd even had a chance to think about sitting down. Jace had just stood there for several seconds, staring at the door after it closed and wondering what the hell he was supposed to do now. So, he'd avoided the eyes of the two women, and took a seat near the back of the room.

Jace shifted uncomfortably in his seat and peered over the top of the magazine at the clock placed just above where the Plexiglas ended. According to it, Clary had been gone for a little over twenty minutes. His leg started to bounce and he wiped his damp palms against the leg of his shorts. What was taking so long? If there was something wrong, she'd come tell him, right? Jace shook his head in an effort to stop himself from thinking that way and tried to concentrate on what he was reading, until he realized it was an article on the way intrauterine devices were inserted. He threw the magazine down in disgust and lowered his face to his hands. Jace couldn't believe he was there. Not just there at the clinic but there in his life. He was always so careful, with everything: school, football, friends, dating, sex, everything. And the one time he wasn't. The one time—

"Jace?"

He heard his name spoken softly from just a foot or so in front of him. Jace looked up and met the gaze of a small Asian woman in a white lab coat. She wore her hair twisted tightly to the back of her head and a gentle smile on her face. The two things seemed to be at odds with one another: one severe and one kind. He blinked up at her for a few seconds before she spoke again.

"You're Jace? The one who brought Clary in, right?"

He nodded, cleared his throat, and answered, "Yeah. Is she—where is she?"

"Hi, I'm Dr. Penhallow." She held out her hand, and Jace shook it tentatively. "Could you come with me, please?" She took a step back and held the same hand out toward the door through which Clary had disappeared earlier.

Jace followed her gesture with his eyes. "Why? What's wrong?"

"I just thought maybe I could discuss a few things with you."

Why did she need to discuss anything with him? What the hell was going on? Dr. Penhallow must have caught on to his panic, because she laid her hand on his arm and spoke quietly:

"It'll only be a few moments and then you can talk to Clary, okay?"

Jace's eyes flitted to the door once more then back to the doctor. His legs felt wobbly and his stomach twisted in knots as he stood and followed her through the door and into a small office. She gestured for him to sit in one of the chairs situated in front of the desk, but he shook his head. He didn't want to sit; he just wanted to know what the hell was going on.

"Okay, that's fine if you don't want to sit." Dr. Penhallow perched on the edge of her desk and clutched a clipboard to her chest. "While I can't discuss any of Clary's specific medical issues with you, because she has given me your name as the father of her baby, there were just a few things I wanted to discuss with you."

Jace's stomach twisted tighter. The father of her baby . . . shit.

"First of all," she looked down at the clipboard and removed a couple of brochures, handing them to him, "we have a lot of excellent counselors and support groups for teenage parents through this clinic. Of course no one will make you go, but I highly recommend you at least think about talking to someone about this. It's not going to be easy for you or Clary to deal with all of the things that can and will happen as a result of this pregnancy."

Jace looked down at the pamphlets and tried to swallow, but his mouth had gone dry.

"Clary has explained to me the . . . details . . . surrounding how she became pregnant. I assume because you were under the influence at the time, it somehow slipped your mind to use a condom and you do possess the knowledge of how to operate one?"

Heat coursed up Jace's neck and pooled into his face. Jesus Christ. "Yes, ma'am."

"Good," Dr. Penhallow said, and checked off something on the paper attached to the clipboard. What the hell was that? "Now, since you came with her, and stayed," her eyes rested on his, "can I assume you'd like to be involved?"

Jace didn't know if "like" was the appropriate term to describe why he was there, more like he felt obligated. He didn't figure that would go over too well, so he just nodded.

"That's very good. It's very seldom the teenage father sticks around, but it can make all the difference for the mother, believe me."

Jesus. He wished she'd stop saying things like "father" and "mother." He wasn't ready to hear those words in relation to him and Clary yet. There was a lot of time left to get used to it.

"Now, there's one more thing I'm going to do with Clary before she leaves today and—I've already discussed this with her and she has given her okay—if you'd like to come in, you may."

Jace's head whipped up and he felt his eyes grow wide. There was no way he wanted to see _anything_ that went on in one of those rooms. He'd heard stories. Very wrong, very sick stories.

Dr. Penhallow chuckled. "Relax, it's nothing like that."

How the hell did she know what he was thinking?

"I'm going to do what they call an ultrasound. Do you know what that is?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, good." She nodded. "I can't guarantee we'll be able to see much of anything because I only have a functioning abdominal scan today—the machine I'd usually use for sonograms this early is out of commission at the moment. But I'm going to try, at least to make sure everything else is as it should be. I have my theories on what is causing Clary's pain, but there are things I need to check off the list first. An ultrasound can at least rule some things out. And there is a chance, because Clary is so thin, that we may be able to see the baby, even abdominally." She paused. "Is that something you'd like to be a part of?"

Jace couldn't begin to comprehend what she was saying. It was too soon for this. He'd just found out Clary was pregnant a couple of weeks ago. They couldn't be having scans and looking at babies already, could they? "I don't know. What does Clary want?"

Dr. Penhallow took a breath and stood up straight. "I don't know what Clary wants, but can I tell you what I do know?"

"Sure."

"I know that there's a very scared girl in there, a very alone girl. And maybe, just maybe if she knew that the father of her baby was in this thing with her, she could stop being so afraid. Teenage pregnancy isn't just hard because young people aren't equipped to be parents in the traditional sense. It's hard because their bodies aren't ready, their minds aren't ready, their spirits aren't ready. And a lot of the time, teenage mothers don't get and take the care they need, so complications arise. And do you know why they do that? Because they _are_ scared and they _are_ alone." She paused and placed her hand on his arm. "I'm not going to tell you what you should do, but you should know the facts. Clary is a strong girl, there's no question about that. But I think she could be even stronger with you."

Jace looked down at the pamphlets once more, of the young boys on the covers holding babies. He took in their expressions and saw in every one of their faces what he felt inside: fear, guilt, shame. But he also saw resolution and forgiveness. For themselves. For what they'd done. When he looked up, Dr. Penhallow's gaze was glued on his face. But there was no judgment there, no guilt trip. The things she'd said weren't to get him to do what she felt was right, they were to give him the chance to do it himself.

Straightening his posture to make himself appear more confident than he felt, he looked at her and said, "Okay."

.o.O.o.

Clary could have sworn the room was colder than it had been the first time she'd been there. Even though she now wore her jeans and t-shirt instead of the crappy papery gown she'd donned the first time, she could still feel the coolness of the plastic table beneath her. Shifting her legs a little, the paper beneath her protested with a loud crinkle, and she cringed against the sound. Everything seemed magnified in the quiet: the whoosh of the furnace pushing air through the vents above her, the creak of the table when she nervously swung her legs. All of it combined to put Clary right on the edge of her nerves.

After going over everything with Dr. Penhallow, answering every question she had about symptoms, family history, and etcetra, the doctor had asked her to lie back on the table and proceeded to press against her abdomen, pushing and prodding with surprising strength and asking if anything hurt. When nothing did, Dr. Penhallow brought in a nurse, who withdrew what seemed like half of Clary's blood, then asked Clary to pee in a cup. Luckily, she hadn't made her get undressed, stating that since she'd already done an internal exam a few weeks ago, she wouldn't do another unless there was need. Clary silently thanked God for that. She totally wasn't up to anymore prodding of _that_ nature anytime soon.

Dr. Penhallow returned to the room shortly after the nurse had finished drawing what seemed like the fiftieth vial of blood and confirmed for Clary that she was, indeed, pregnant (duh).

"About seven weeks along, which matches up to your reported LMP."

"LMP?" she asked.

Dr. Penhallow had been scribbling something onto Clary's chart and didn't bother to look up when she answered, "Last menstrual period."

Clary frowned. "But I didn't have sex until a couple of weeks after that."

"Yes, well, the date of the party—" she flipped back a couple of pages, "Friday, September sixteenth—came about fifteen days from the first day of your last period, which you reported as September first, correct?"

Clary nodded.

Dr. Penhallow nodded in return. "It's often confusing to first-time mothers how pregnancy is calculated. Of course, you would not have actually conceived until the sixteenth—or possibly a day or two after if you had not yet ovulated, because semen can live inside you for up to three days."

Clary grimaced. She so did not want to think about sperm living inside her!

"But pregnancy is measured like one long cycle, just like your period, which always starts from the first day of your last period until the first day of your next. Only with pregnancy, it's measured from the first day of your LMP to when most babies are born—forty weeks later."

"Okay." Clary swallowed against the tightening in her throat. "Well, I already knew I was pregnant. I mean, I took the test and everything. But . . . what's wrong with me? What are these pains from? Is something wrong?"

Dr. Penhallow finally looked up from her clipboard. She set it down on her lap and reached over to take Clary's hand. Her fingers were cold and dry. "I have my theories, but before I say anything definitive, there's one more test I'd like to do."

"Okay," Clary said, her voice shaking. "What kind of test?"

"I'd like to do an ultrasound. Do you know what that is?"

Clary nodded. "You use a machine to take pictures of the baby."

"Yes. Pretty much. But I can also see your whole reproductive system: ovaries, fallopian tubes, uterus. There are a few things I want to check to make sure I'm right about what's happening." She paused. "The thing is, normally with a pregnancy as early as yours, we'd do what's called a transvaginal ultrasound. It uses a special wand that's inserted inside you."

Clary stiffened and pressed her legs together. No way. No WAY.

"But our machine went on the fritz the other day and is being repaired, so all I have is the regular abdominal scan. I may not be able to see everything I need to see with it since you are so early. But I'd like to try. I think we may have success because you are just about seven weeks and are quite thin already. But if I can't, I'll need you to come back next week for the transvaginal, all right?"

"Okay."

"Good. Now," Dr. Penhallow reached into her coat and pulled out a bottle of water. "I'm going to need you to drink this."

"Why?" Clary took the bottle.

"An ultrasound works by sending sound waves through your body. It helps me to see more if your bladder is full."

"Oh." Clary twisted the cap to open the bottle. "Okay." She tipped the bottle to her lips and took several long chugs before Dr. Penhallow spoke again.

"There's just one more thing."

Clary lowered the bottle. "Yeah?"

"I'd like to discuss the father."

Clary frowned and took another few sips. "What about him?"

"The boy who brought you in. The one in the waiting room. Is that him?"

Clary felt her face heat. "Yeah. Jace."

Dr. Penhallow smiled and patted Clary's knee. The gesture was strange and a little familiar for the situation, but it actually helped to make Clary feel a little more at ease. "How would you feel about letting him view the ultrasound as well?"

Clary choked on the water she'd just dumped into her mouth and soaked the front of her shirt. "What? Why?"

Dr. Penhallow rose and grabbed a few paper towels, holding them out to Clary. "I think it would be good for him. For both of you."

Clary wiped the water from her chin and dabbed at the front of her shirt. "How so?"

"Well," the doctor sat back in her chair once more, "as women, pregnancy is usually real from the moment we see the plus sign on that test, and especially when we start having symptoms. But for men, they usually need some sort of physical sign that it's real. Normally this doesn't happen until the woman starts to show or sometimes not even until the baby is born. Every man is different." She paused. "But Jace is young, practically still a boy. The idea of there actually being a baby inside you is going to be very hard for him to comprehend until he has proof. Physical proof. I think seeing that it's there will help him—and you—come to terms with and accept what is happening better."

Clary frowned. "But he seems fine—better than me, actually."

"Exactly," Dr. Penhallow said. "It's easy to be calm when something is just an idea instead of a reality."

A niggle of discomfort twisted in Clary's gut. What if this was what would finally push Jace away? To make him turn around and run out of her life forever. Something about that thought made her feel a panic she hadn't felt before. Sure, she'd always been afraid it would happen, that was why she'd refused to let him get close to her to begin with. But it had been about what she didn't know then, what she was afraid to know. Now it was more about what she wanted to know, needed to know, and was afraid to lose. But maybe it would be better if it happened now. Before he broke her down. Before he could really hurt her.

With a nod, she'd said, "Okay. He can come in."

Now, as she sat in the room alone, waiting, she wondered if she hadn't made a horrible mistake. Panic clenched in her chest and tingled over her skin. God, maybe she should have said no. Maybe he'd say no. Wait. What if he said no? The panic grew and crawled up her throat. Maybe this would be the start of it, the end.

Voices sounded from outside the door, one light, high, familiar, the other, lower, deeper. Clary drew in a breath and let it out slowly, her hands clenched together and her legs swinging lightly, banging against the table. The long handle on the door turned down and the snick of it unlatching made goosebumps form over Clary's arms. Dr. Penhallow's white-clad arm came through first, then the rest of her, and then . . . him.

Clary's breath caught, because he had come, because he hadn't said no, because he was there. It wasn't exactly surprise she felt, but more . . . she had no idea.

Jace stepped in behind Dr. Penhallow and his eyes immediately found Clary's. She could tell by the lines surrounding them and the paleness of his skin that he was nervous. He'd removed his ball cap and held it in his hands in front of him. His hair was a complete disaster, curls in disarray and pointing in every direction in a way that did not look purposefully messy, but just messy. There was something beyond the obvious nervousness that made him look so young, so vulnerable standing there in the doorway of a room filled with posters of female parts and a model of a uterus.

His eyes left hers for a moment and darted around the room, growing larger as he took in the space. Clary bit the inside of her lip to keep herself from smiling. Dr. Penhallow excused herself to retrieve the ultrasound machine, leaving Clary and Jace alone in the room together. It wasn't as awkward as she'd feared it would be. In fact, it was actually sort of comforting having him there.

"Jesus," he said, almost below his breath. "This place is almost as bad as I imagined it."

Clary snorted. "Do I even want to know what you imagined would be back here?"

Jace shuddered noticeably. "No, probably not." He walked across the room to the desk and bent at the waist, peering at the model uterus with his lip curled. "Gross."

"Hey, come on now, that's not nearly as gross as the giant model penis." Heat raced up her neck and flooded into her cheeks. Did she just say_ penis_ in front of him?

Jace twisted to look up at her. "A giant model what?"

"Nothing." Clary shook her head._ OhGodohGodohGodohGod!_

"No, no, no." Jace straightened and turned to face her. "I'm pretty sure you said the words 'giant model penis.'"

"Nuh uh. No, I didn't."

Jace raised a brow.

"Fine, I said it."

"Uh huh. And?"

"And what?"

"And where is this magical model penis?" _Oh, God, now he said it!_ Jace lifted his hands in question. "All I see are posters and disgusting plastic replicas of your . . . your . . ." He thrust his hand at her in reference. "You know."

"Uterus?"

"Yes." He snapped and pointed at her. "That."

Clary rolled her eyes. "Nice. You can't even say the word." At least _she_ said penis.

"Yes, I can." Jace crossed his arms over his chest.

"So say it then."

"Say what?"

"Uterus."

"I'll say it when you show me."

Clary narrowed her eyes, held up a finger, and hopped off the table. "You better not flake out on me."

"I won't." Jace moved back in front of the door and eyed Clary suspiciously. "This better be massive if I'm saying that in return."

"And disgusting," she said, and reached out for the door on the cabinet. "Don't forget disgusting." Right away she spied the thing propped up against the side of the cabinet. Ew, gross. But hey, if he could say her parts were gross, then she could say his were too. She scrunched her nose and reached in, grasping the tip between her thumb and forefinger, handling it like it might bite her if she touched it any more. Taking a step back, she withdrew her arm and held the model out. "See?"

Jace's brows rose, but he didn't move from his spot in front of the door. He just cocked his head to the side as he studied the model. "It's not that big."

Clary's mouth dropped open. "Oh, come on! This thing is huge!"

Jace shrugged. "It's not that big," he repeated with a devious grin.

Clary looked at the thing dangling from her fingers, her mouth open to say something, when it dawned on her what he was implying. Her jaw dropped further, and she had the urge to throw the penis at him. "Ew. Oh, ew!"

He shook his head and laughed.

"That's . . . that's . . . We don't know each other well enough for you to say that!"

"I didn't say anything! I can't help how your mind interprets things."

"Oh, I didn't 'interpret' anything. I know exactly what that little smirk is implying."

"If we don't know each other well, how do you know what my facial expressions mean?"

Clary started to argue back, but realized he had her. He smiled wider. She narrowed her eyes and pointed at him with her free hand. "That was just wrong, Jace Wayland. Wrong!"

He held his hands up in surrender. "If you really want to know what's wrong . . ." He frowned. "Please tell me that's not how you hold a real one."

Clary glanced back at the way she was holding the model, and with a huff, tossed it back into the cabinet, closing the door behind it. Her face heated to at least a thousand degrees. "I don't know, Jace, why don't you tell me?" And then when she realized what her big mouth had just spewed, her cheeks grew even hotter.

He didn't stop smiling. "If it would make you turn that red, I would if I could remember."

Ignoring what he'd said, lest her head explode at the implication, she walked back to the table and heaved herself back to her previous position. "Okay, I showed you, now say it."

"I don't know. I don't think that quite lived up to the massiveness you promised."

Clary leveled him with the evil eye.

"Fine." He chuckled and crossed the room to stand right in front of her. With that stupid grin still plastered on his face, he placed one hand to either side of her legs on the table, and leaned in. "Uterus."

Clary shook her head and tried, unsuccessfully, to bite back her own smile. "You're an ass. That didn't bother you at all to say, did it?"

"Nope. I'm confident enough in my masculinity to name female anatomy." Jace reached up and absently brushed his finger over the corner of her mouth. "But it made you smile."

Clary's breath caught, and her first instinct was to jerk away, to move herself as far from his touch as possible, but somehow, she didn't. She sat there, staring at him as he stared at her. But Jace must have noticed her stiffened posture, because he slowly lowered his hand to her side once more, and Clary felt his wrists brush the outside of her thighs.

"Sorry," he murmured.

He was always saying he was sorry, and Clary knew it was her fault. Her fault for being so cautions and so standoffish. Why did he even want to know her? She wasn't giving him any reason to, in fact, she'd been doing everything she could to push him away. Yet, he stayed. Why? Why would he?

Without thinking, she blurted, "Why are you here?" Heat flooded her cheeks when she realized how that sounded.

Jace blinked in surprise. "Because the doctor said—I can go if you want."

He pulled back, but Clary grasped him by the forearm. "No," she glanced down at where she touched him, "that's not what I meant."

"Then what did you mean?"

"I meant," Clary swallowed, "why do you keep trying—with me. I've given you so many chances to walk away from this. I expected you to walk away. But you haven't. You keep coming back. No matter how crappy I am to you. Why?"

"Why wouldn't I?" he said, his voice tight and his gaze on her hand. "This is my responsibility. My . . . my kid. I can't just pretend it's not. That's not fair." He looked up, and when he did, Clary saw something in his eyes, something old and haunting, something knowing, something sad. "Every kid deserves to be claimed, no matter if they were made by two people in love and making a conscious effort, or by two stupid, drunk teenagers against Sebastian Verlac's bathroom door." Jace paused and drew in a breath, as if he was trying to decide whether or not to say more. Clary's heart pounded against her ribs. "And . . ."

Jace flipped his arm in her grasp, until he cupped hers instead. His hand moved down, brushing over her skin, his hot palm burning her flesh and causing her hairs to stand on end. Clary bit her lip and tried to control her reaction. She was not going to shiver. She was _not_. Before Jace had a chance to finish his sentence a throat cleared behind him.

Jace turned toward the sound, dropping Clary's arm at the same time. Dr. Penhallow stood in the doorway, with a large cart with some type of monitor on top.

"I'm sorry," she said. "Do you two need another minute?"

"No," Clary said, though she really wanted to say yes. What was Jace about to say? And what was that look in his eyes. What did it mean?

Jace shook his head and moved around the table to stand at Clary's side. Dr. Penhallow nodded and came the rest of the way in, the cart making a loud squealing sound as she rolled it in. How had neither of them heard it before? Clary knew how she hadn't. She'd been too absorbed in Jace, in the words he was saying and the one's he was not, in the way he was looking at her, and the way his touch lit her up. The doctor pulled the machine beside the table on which Clary sat, and Clary noticed that just below the monitor was a rounded table with keyboard and a bunch of dials on it. To the side were several strange wand-looking objects with cords stretching down to the same number of box-like compartments underneath. Clary's stomach twisted with nervousness.

"Okay, Clary, I'm going to need you to lie back," Dr. Penhallow said as she pressed a switch that brought the monitor on top of the cart to life, and then fiddled with several dials on the front.

Clary did as she was told, the paper crinkling with every move she made. The doctor grabbed her rolling stool and placed it in front of the machine, before coming to stand next to the table. She glanced down at Clary and gave her a reassuring smile.

"I know it looks intimidating, but it's basically just a big camera. It won't hurt at all. The gel may just be a little cold at first and I will need to apply some pressure to get the best picture possible."

Clary nodded and swallowed hard against the fear in her throat. Jace stood stiff and unsure beside her.

Dr. Penhallow pointed to a chair on the opposite wall. "You can sit if you'd like," she said to him.

Clary looked up at him, and he just shook his head, his eyes wide and face pale. He looked just as scared as her. She had the fleeting urge to hold his hand, but she squashed that thought and turned back to the doctor.

"Okay then," the doctor said, much too cheerily for Clary's taste, "let's get started."

She grabbed a blue napkin-looking thing and tucked it into the top of Clary's pants, pulling them down until they rested way under her pelvic bone. Clary felt her face heat at how much of her "area" seemed to be exposed. Dr. Penhallow then pushed Clary's shirt up to rest just under her bra, leaving her entire abdomen on display. Clary heard Jace draw in a sharp breath and shift on his feet.

"I apologize for the chill, but the warmer is broken." The doctor grabbed a bottle from next to the wand-things and brought it up over Clary's stomach. She squeezed and with a disgusting squirting sound, a large amount of freezing goop dropped onto her skin. Clary gasped and jumped a little, and Dr. Penhallow chuckled. "Yeah, that's the worst of it. Now for the fun part."

Clary couldn't imagine any of this experience to be fun. She was laid out on a hard, plastic table with uncomfortably scratchy paper stuck to her back, half her body on display, and some nasty cold crap piled on her stomach. She felt stiff and awkward, the bottom half of her back arched and starting to ache. Her fingers wrapped around the sides of the table, digging into the plastic as if she were holding on for her life.

Dr. Penhallow grabbed one of the wand-things—which looked surprisingly like a handheld scanners used at the store, except the front was rounded and smooth—and touched it to Clary's lower stomach, swirling the freezing goo all over. The screen on the monitor filled with a bunch of gray and white blobs that had no discernible shape and resembled static on an old television set. The doctor twisted the wand, pressing into Clary's abdomen kind of hard. She tried not to grimace, but failed. All of them were silent for several moments, before Dr. Penhallow pointed to the left side of the screen.

"This is your left ovary."

Clary saw nothing but gray. Gray, gray, and more gray.

"And this," the doctor drew her finger down a slightly darker line, "is your fallopian tube."

The doctor moved the wand across Clary's stomach and pressed in again just as she had before, pointing out another gray blob and another darker line which she also called a "tube."

"Both tubes are clear, which is very good. It rules out one of the more dangerous reasons for your pain." She moved the wand down, way down to just above where she'd pulled Clary's pants to. The doctor traced her finger along some more blobs on the screen. "This is the top of the uterus." She fiddled a bit longer and stopped, freezing the screen. "Do you see this?" The doctor pointed to a black circle nestled amongst a sea of gray.

"Um, I guess?" Clary said. Jace said nothing, but Clary could hear his shallow breaths.

"This is the gestational sac." She traced her finger around the small black circle. "It's in a fairly good position, if not a little low, in the uterus. And this," she pointed to a small, white, rice-sized spot inside the circle, "is what we call the fetal pole."

Clary had no idea what any of that meant, whether it was good or bad, but she felt too stupid to ask. Dr. Penhallow maneuvered the wand a bit more, then stopped, her brows pulling together in concentration.

"What?" Clary asked, suddenly feeling nervous about the answer. "What's wrong?" She felt Jace stiffen beside her.

The doctor shook her head slowly. "Nothing. Nothing's wrong. Do you see that flickering?" She touched the screen, near the white spot inside the black circle.

Clary squinted but couldn't see anything but blobs of black, gray and white. "No . . ."

"I see it," Jace finally spoke, his voice very quiet.

Clary narrowed her eyes more and then finally, she saw it, a very fast fluttering on the rice-sized line of white. "Oh! Yes, yes, I see it too."

"That," Dr. Penhallow smiled, "is your baby's heartbeat."

.o.O.o.

A heartbeat.

A God-damned heartbeat.

It hadn't been long enough for that, had it? Jace tried to catch his breath, but ever since he'd seen that flicker, he'd felt as if someone was squeezing his lungs with their bare hands. Dr. Penhallow finished up quickly after that declaration, and was now discussing things Jace did not understand, and honestly could not even really hear over the pounding of his own heart. Something about muscles and ligaments and stretching and dehydration. He had no God-damned idea, but—hell, was the room getting smaller?

"Jace?"

He blinked at the sound of his name and looked up to find both Dr. Penhallow and Clary staring at him.

"Are you all right?" the doctor asked.

Jace swallowed. "Uh," his entire body flushed with heat and he felt the sudden urge to run out of there, "no—yeah, um, is it hot in here?"

Clary's brows rose almost to her hairline. "No. I actually thought it was pretty cold."

"Oh," he said, and frowned. "You sure?" Sweat beaded along his forehead. "Because I'm really hot."

Dr. Penhallow stood, a knowing look on her face. Jace didn't like that look. At all. She took him by the shoulders and steered him toward the door. "I think maybe some air will do you good," she said, and opened the door. A nurse was walking by, and Dr. Penhallow addressed her, "Michelle, could you get Jace some water and help him outside?"

Help? He didn't need help, he could walk.

"Wait," he said, catching Clary's concerned look, as Dr. Penhallow ushered him into the hands of the nurse.

"It's all right," the doctor said. "We're just about done. Clary will meet you outside in a few minutes." She smiled leaned in, and whispered, "You did very well. Better than most in your situation. Just take a breath. It'll be fine."

Jace looked down, confused, as she patted his arm, promising again that it would only be a moment before Clary was finished. The door closed in his face and the nurse led him out into the lobby, thrust a cold bottle in his hand, and the next thing he knew, he was standing out on the sidewalk. The cool breeze coming off the river across the street blew over his face, immediately cooling the fire raging through his veins.

He stared at the water, watching as the current rippled the surface, and tried to make sense out of what just happened. But he couldn't. His brain just couldn't wrap itself around the fact that it had a heartbeat. Logically, he knew babies had heartbeats and he knew Clary was pregnant. He hadn't doubted her. Not once. But it had never felt so . . . real. So inevitable.

It had a God-damned heartbeat. He closed his eyes and lifted his face to the sky. A hand pressed against the center of his back and he turned to look at who was touching him. The nurse was still there, watching him with worried eyes.

"I'm fine," he said. "I'm fine."

He still felt the overwhelming squeezing in his chest, and his heart beat rapidly against his sternum. But he could breathe again.

"Really," he reassured her when her look remained skeptical. Jace glanced back over at the river. "Can you just tell my, er, Clary, that I'm over there?" He nodded to the fountain sitting just across the way.

The nurse didn't look like she wanted to let him out of her sight, and kept insisting he sit down and drink the bottle of water. Frustrated, he twisted the cap off the bottle and chugged half of it right then and there.

"There. Happy now?" he asked, irritated.

When she didn't answer, he finished off the bottle and chucked it in the trashcan nearby, before stalking across the street, ignoring her protests. The large stone fountain rose up in front of him, no cupid or any other type of chubby, naked baby this time, but just a standard, three tier fountain. He circled it until he was on the side facing the river. It was calm today, not many people walking along the water, but there were several boats floating in the current. Jace sat down on the ground and leaned his back against the stone, resting his head against the fountain base. It was hard and cold, but it helped him keep his thoughts straight.

He'd been so stupid, treating this whole thing like it was nothing. But it wasn't nothing. There was a tiny person inside Clary. A tiny person with a tiny heart that beat. A tiny person that he put there. Jace lifted a hand to his hair, his shaking fingers pulling at the strands before he dropped them to his lap.

What the hell was he supposed to do now? The weight of this new reality pressed down on him like he was buried under a hundred feet of dirt. He closed his eyes and tried to breathe through it, to try to calm his racing mind. But nothing seemed to help. There was so much fear and doubt and disbelief raging through him. How was he supposed to do this? To be someone's father? What were people going to say? What was his father going to say? Over and over and over the questions bombarded his mind, relentless and unforgiving, and only serving to make him question everything more.

Jace didn't know how long he sat there, his mind reeling, and his eyes closed, before he heard the crinkle of paper and felt the air shift as someone sat beside him.

"Here," Clary said, and Jace opened his eyes to see a small, purple lollipop in front of him. "Dr. Penhallow says it helps."

Jace wrapped his fingers around the little stick and withdrew the candy from her hand. "Help with what?"

"So you don't pass out."

Jace rolled his eyes. "I'm not going to pass out."

Clary shrugged and unwrapped her own candy. "It's okay if you do. I won't tell anyone."

"I'm not going to pass out," Jace repeated, and gave her a sidelong glance. "And, yes, you would."

A small grin pulled at her lips. "Maybe one day when we're old and gray and telling stories about 'back in the day.'"

Jace laughed and glanced back at the river. A flock of birds flew overhead, dipping down every so often to catch bugs or small fish from the surface of the water. He let out a slow breath.

"It's okay if you're scared," Clary said, quietly. "I am."

"I know." But it wasn't okay. His whole life he was taught to be strong, to be a man. Being afraid was not manly. How was he going to be a father if he couldn't even handle seeing a damn picture of a beating heart?

For several minutes, neither of them spoke. The only sounds were the rustle of the remaining leaves in the trees nearby, the chirping of the birds fighting over their next meal, and the occasional car passing by on the street behind them. Usually, silence unnerved him, but somehow, being silent with Clary calmed Jace. He knew she felt the same fears he did—probably even more—and with her he didn't feel like such an ass for feeling that way.

"Jace?" Clary spoke a few minutes later, her words hesitant. "Can I ask you something?"

"Yeah," he said.

"When you were telling me why you kept trying with me . . . you said every child deserved to be claimed. But . . . when you said it . . . you seemed like, I don't know, like maybe you'd experienced something like that. Did you know someone like that or something?"

"Yeah." Jace closed his eyes. "Me."

"You—what?"

Jace opened his eyes and lowered his gaze to his hands. He'd never really told anyone his story—not even Sebastian—but he figured, if anyone should know, it should be her. "Michael Wayland isn't my biological father." Jace heard Clary's intake of breath, but he didn't look at her. If he did, he may not get the story out. Even though he knew it wasn't really his fault, he still felt shame. "My mom was married before, to her high school boyfriend. They'd been together forever, and as soon as they graduated, they got married. They had all these dreams and plans about traveling the world and all kinds of other shit. None of those plans included a kid. In fact, Stephen—that's his name, Stephen Herondale—said he never wanted kids at all. So, when mom found out she was pregnant, he gave her an ultimatum: get rid of it or their marriage was over." Jace held his hand out, palm up. "You can see which she chose." He picked up a pebble, rolled it between his fingers, then tossed it out to the river. "Mom met and married Michael when I was two. He adopted me and he's been the only father I've ever known. He's not my blood, but he's my dad." He finally looked at her. "Still, it doesn't change the fact that my real father walked away. That he pretends I don't even exist. I don't want to do that to my kid. I wouldn't do that."

Clary was quiet for a few moments, and Jace started to doubt his decision to tell her. And then she said, "My mom's not around, either. She and my dad aren't really getting along, so she stays in the city with . . . with her _friend_." The way she said the word friend made Jace think this friend, wasn't so much of a "friend," but something more. "I think they're probably going to get a divorce." She brushed her hair out of her face, and tried to make it seem like she didn't care, but Jace could see by the way creases formed around her eyes and mouth, that she cared more than she wanted to say.

"That sucks," he said.

"Yeah, well," she said. "Maybe it's better than hearing them fight all the time. I don't know."

"I don't know either."

Clary let out a breath and closed her eyes, leaning her head back against the rock basin. "It's going to be all right, isn't it? All of this?"

Jace leaned his head back, too, and looked up at the sky. "I don't know that either."

A few gulls screeched from several feet away, and Jace turned to look at them, but instead found Clary staring at him.

"What else were you going to say?" she asked. "Earlier, when Dr. Penhallow came into the room. After I asked you why you kept trying with me and you told me about every child deserving to be claimed. After that you said 'and', like there was more. What were you going to say?"

Jace thought back to that moment, as he'd looked into her eyes in that office and saw just a little bit of vulnerability peeking through. Weakness that he'd never seen her show before. "I was going to say, that even though there's so much shit between us with how we met and how this all happened, how our fathers hate each other, and are probably going to kill both of us when they find out, and how even though you keep pushing me away, I still feel this . . . this _thing_ between us. And I keep thinking that that maybe if I just wait, if I just hold on while you decide whether or not you can trust me, that someday you will. And when that day comes, all of the waiting will be worth it. You'll be worth it."

He expected her to withdraw, to stand and walk away, or to tell him that this was too much, that friends don't say things like that to friends. But she didn't. She continued to stare at him, her eyes moving from one of his to the other, testing them for truth. But he was being honest; probably the most honest he'd ever been with a girl before—hell, with anyone. There was no way she could see anything but that, because there was nothing else. There was just him.

After a moment, she closed her eyes. Shit, he'd lost her. He should have shut his God-damned mouth. But then . . . Something warm and soft slid down his arm and over his hand, pushing down into his palm and intertwining with his fingers. Jace glanced down to find her pale, freckled arm crossed over his and their hands joined together, his larger one engulfing hers. When he looked back up, her eyes were open once more, studying him as if this was the first time she'd ever seen him.

"You know what, Jace Wayland?"

"What?" he asked.

With a tiny smile, she said, "I think you might be worth it too."

_The slow burn is heating up. ;)_

_Until next time, XOXO ~ddpjclaf_

_Edited to add: Jace actually *barely noted* in his thoughts what Dr. Penhallow "diagonosed" Clary's pain as... So, if you still aren't sure, go back to the last section. ;) I'm gonna make you work for it this time. :P_


	11. I Always Ache Around You

****The character names of The Mortal Instruments are owned by Cassandra Clare. The original content, ideas and intellectual property of this story are owned by ddpjclaf, 2011. Please do not copy, reproduce, or translate without express written permission.****

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Eleven "I Always Ache Around You"<strong>

_Thanks so much for your patience on waiting for this chapter guys. I made it extra long just for you (actually, I'm just totally wordy, sorry). This chapter jumps a head a couple of weeks in time (so, Clary would now be a little over 9 weeks pregnant-for those keeping track). I know we're missing a lot of the "getting to know you" chats between Jace and Clary, but it's referred to here, and I just really don't think we need it all._

_A big thanks to Lightlacedwithbeauty for staying up late with me last night and editing this entire beast of a chapter. Your eeeeps and bursts of disbelief/anger were entertaining as always. ;)_

_Chapter Songs:_

_**Tomorrow – Avril Lavigne_

_**A Drop in the Ocean – Ron Pope_

_**They'll Never Know – Ross Copperman_

_**Just a Kiss – Lady Antebellum (I'm not a huge country fan, but the lyrics to this are awesome)_

* * *

><p>For the fourth time in two weeks, Clary woke with her heart pounding and her body covered in sweat. She wished she could say the dreams were nightmares, that she was running from some huge, mucous covered monster with a spiked tail and ten inch fangs. She wished she could say that was what it was. But she couldn't.<p>

Her dreams were not about fear—at least not that kind, anyway. They were about want. A want so powerful that even when she woke up, she could still feel it. That flutter in her stomach and the ache in her chest. The yearning in her muscles to just get out of bed and _do_ something about it. For two weeks, since the day at the fountain, since the day he'd told her he'd wait for her, she'd been fighting it.

Clary groaned and rolled over, her hand swiping over the nightstand until it found her cell phone. She picked it up and turned it on, squinting against the bright screen. Two in the morning.

No messages received.

With a groan, she dropped the phone onto the table and lay back on her pillow. She thrust her hand into her hair and stared up at the ceiling. Two weeks. It had only been two weeks since they'd really been talking, since they'd really even attempted to get to know one another. That wasn't long enough, right? Not long enough to feel the way she was feeling, to feel the way—if she allowed herself to admit it—she'd felt from the moment she'd really even laid eyes on him at the game. That spark had ignited immediately, the one in her stomach that made her sick and excited and scared all at the same time.

The dreams just made it worse.

All day long she told herself to hold back, to keep him at an arm's length until she knew for sure. Until she knew what he said was the truth. But how would she know if it was actually her believing him, or if she just wanted it so much she let herself think she did?

Clary clamped her eyes shut and tried to push the thoughts away. It was exhausting, wondering all the time. Second guessing everything and everyone. She wanted to let go. She wanted to just _stop_. But even as they talked, as he made her laugh, as he made her comfortable, as the sound of his voice murmured in her ear night after night, or the feeling she got when "new text message" popped up with his name next to it, her mind told her to be cautious, to be distant.

And she hated it.

She was so confused, so irritated, so tired. But no matter how much she tried to clear her mind of her fears, at night they came back. Sometimes in the form of the nightmare she'd had before—of being pregnant and Jace leaving her alone. And sometimes the fear she felt wasn't of him leaving, but of wanting him to stay.

Somehow, that was worse. Wanting him.

Wanting him was worse.

Because when Clary wanted something, it only ever ended in disappointment, in heartbreak. In second grade she wanted a puppy, but her father told her there was no way he was cleaning up after another living thing. In fifth grade she'd wanted her mom to go on the field trip to the art museum in the city with her class, but her mom "forgot" and ended up having lunch with a friend instead. Last year she wanted her relationship with Simon to work, to make her stupid, stupid heart love him back even though it didn't. Clary hated to want, hated being vulnerable enough to give someone else control over her feelings. To give them the ability to crush her.

And wanting Jace would crush her.

Not because she was pregnant. Not because she'd lost her virginity to him. Not because there was no way in the world either of their fathers would let them be together. But because he made her feel that thing she'd always wished she could feel with Simon. That thing that made her want him to tuck her hair behind her ear again, to feel his fingers between the spaces in hers, to let him kiss her mouth, to hear his voice tell her again and again and again how she'd be worth it. That thing that made her wish her message inbox had held something instead of nothing when she'd checked her phone. That dependency on someone else to make her feel whole, wanted, needed.

That was dangerous to her. Jace Wayland was dangerous to her.

She was treading water in this sea of confusion. Of fear. Of want. And she didn't know how much longer she could fight to keep her head above it all. And what was worse, she didn't even know if she wanted to. Part of her wanted to drown, to let go and let herself fall and smother in all of it. In him. But another part, her more rational part, knew that if she did that, if she let herself drown, she'd never come back. She'd never make it out alive.

Clary turned over onto her side, tucking her hands under her face, and stared at her cell phone. _Buzz, _she commanded it in her mind_. Buzz._ She knew it was ridiculous, that it was two in the morning and he was most likely asleep. He'd had an away game in a city a few hours from their town, and then would probably have his normal practice with his dad in the morning. She hadn't planned to talk to him today at all, but still, she couldn't shut off her mind long enough to sleep more than ten minutes at a time. And when she did sleep, all she did was dream of him. Clary closed her eyes once more, trying so hard to just become oblivious. She had that stupid cheer competition at Northwest in the morning and she just needed some sleep! Her hands clenched around the edges of her pillow, but her mind raced. She was going crazy. Her parents were going to have to have her committed for obsessive obsessing over whether or not to be with a boy who has made it perfectly clear he wants you. God, she had to be insane to keep holding out, right?

Over the last two weeks he'd done everything she asked. He'd answered all her stupid questions: _What's your favorite color?_ (red) _What's your favorite food?_ (sweet potato fries) _What is your dream school?_ (SEU) And on and on and on. Jace hadn't refused to answer anything, even if he thought his answers might upset her: _Who was your first?_ (that skank Kaelie). But still, even with as open as he'd been, as sweet as he'd been, Clary couldn't quite let herself go. Couldn't quite let herself trust. Why? Why, why, why? She asked herself over and over and over again. But the answer never came. It was always the same: that flare of want would come up when she was talking to him, and she'd think about just doing it, just telling him she wanted him. But she never did. Something held her back. Something larger than her, larger than her own understanding. It was like an invisible hand clamped over her mouth and somehow, at the same time, squeezed her heart, not allowing her to move past this point.

But she didn't have to be a slave to this, did she? She didn't have to let it win. Opening her eyes again, she looked at her phone and willed her hand to move. Slowly, it lifted and moved across the space between her and the nightstand. Her fingers closed around the hard plastic, and she brought it back to her, opening her contacts before her brain could make her chicken out again. Just as she was about to press his name, her phone buzzed, causing her to gasp and drop it to the mattress below. It bounced and flew off the side of the bed.

"Crap," she muttered, feeling around on the floor before having to actually get up and peer under her bed. Luckily, the screen was still lit, so she reached under and plucked it from the ground.

One new message.

Clary's heart raced as her finger hovered over the "open" key.

"God, don't be so stupid," she told herself, and finally touched the screen to open the message. She held her breath while she read.

_Sorry to message you so late. Just got home and . . . well, I'm just thinking about you. Shit. I hope this doesn't wake you._

Clary smiled and thought about all the things she wanted to write back. All the things that would let him know she'd been thinking about him too. But she ended up with:

_**I'm awake. Can't sleep. How was the game? Did you kick butt?**_

His response was immediate. _Why can't you sleep? And, of course._

_**Don't know. Stuff on my mind, I guess. God, you're cocky.**_

_Why is it cocky to be confident? I don't understand that logic._

A pause, and then:

_Wanna talk?_

Clary's heart started again, even faster than before.

_**Don't you have practice in the morning?**_

_Yep, but I can't sleep either. And I miss your voice._

Clary's breath caught, and she closed her eyes, pressing her phone to her forehead as she tried to breathe. God, why did he always have to say stuff like that? They were just little, tiny things that made her unable to breathe and her heart speed and her hands start to sweat. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that all he had to do was say something as simple as he "missed her voice," and she was reduced to an un-breathing, heart racing, sweaty, girly idiot. But if she were being honest, she missed his too, and it had only been a few days since they'd actually talked. After a moment, she lowered the phone once more and with shaking fingers, typed out:

_**Okay.**_

Seconds later, her phone buzzed again but this time with an incoming call. She made sure she was breathing properly and then pushed "talk".

"Hi," he said before she could, and just the sound of him was enough to bring back that feeling. The want. The need. The drowning.

"Hi," she returned, quietly, closing her eyes and lying back down, the phone between her ear and the pillow. Her body buzzed and her chest warmed. "So, tell me about all this butt you kicked."

Jace chuckled. "You don't want to hear about football."

"What are you talking about? I love football."

"Keep sweet talking me like that and I'll tell you anything you want."

Clary laughed and snuggled down into her pillow. A sense of calm claimed her at the sound of his voice: low, quiet, excited yet tired as he told her about his day. The feeling built as she listened to him, as she let his voice wash over her, and she decided that just for now, just for this night, to let herself go, to let herself feel.

To let herself drown.

.o.O.o.

The floor of Northwest's gym was cold and hard. But Clary was so tired she didn't care that her butt was freezing as she sprawled across it, her legs spread-eagle and her torso lying flat on the floor in front of her. She could totally fall asleep like this.

"Clary! God, would you wake up?"

Maia's shrill voice startled Clary and she pushed herself up. "What? I'm stretching."

"No, you're sleeping." Maia looked over the schedule attached to the clipboard in her hand. "Okay, girls, we don't go on until eleven thirty."

The whole squad groaned.

"Damn it, Maia," Izzy said from her spot beside Clary. "What the hell did we have to be here at seven for if we don't even go on for four and a half hours?"

Murmured agreement echoed from the circle of girls.

"Because," Maia said, placing the clipboard down on a nearby table, "we need the practice. Little Miss Sleepy here," she thrust her thumb in Clary's direction, "hasn't let us practice our throws for weeks."

Clary caught Isabelle's eye. Of course she hadn't wanted to do throws. They were the most dangerous stunts they had.

"Maybe if you didn't drop her as often as you caught her, she may be more willing."

Clary nodded and pointed at Izzy. "Exactly."

"Well, maybe if you let us practice more often we wouldn't drop you!" Maia retorted.

"Seriously, Maia," one of the other squad members piped up. "I don't think we should do the flip toss."

"What?" Maia balked. "But that's our signature move! Our winning stunt! We can't leave it out."

"Yeah, but if our flyer isn't comfortable, then we can't do it." The girl gave Clary a reassuring smile.

Clary felt her stomach twist. She knew she would be letting her squad down if she didn't do the stunt. It really was their special move. None of the other schools in the competition could complete it. In order to get the height needed to complete the twist and flip, it required a very well balanced set of bases and flyer. The flyer could not be very big, the smaller the better actually, and Clary was the smallest flyer there. The problem was, of course, that she was potentially the only pregnant flyer there as well. Not that anyone besides Izzy and Jace knew that though.

"Well," she said. "Maybe I could—"

"What?" Isabelle turned on her, her eyes wide and mouth open. "No, Clary. No."

She leaned toward her friend. "But we can't win without it. I can do it, Iz."

"You're not doing that stunt, Clary. No." Isabelle looked up at Maia, who was glaring at the two of them. "She's not doing it, Maia, so lay off."

Maia threw her hands into the air. "Fine. You know what? Whatever, Clary. That's just great." She plopped down between two girls across from Clary and Izzy. "But you can be the one to explain why we didn't make it to state."

Clary's face burned and she narrowed her eyes at Isabelle. "Why'd you have to do that?" she whispered. "I've done the stunt before. I don't need you to fight my battles for me."

"Maybe I'm not fighting for you." Her eyes flickered to Clary's abdomen then back up. "You need to start putting . . . other things . . . first! What would Jace think about you being thrown all over the place? It's his kid too!"

"Shhh!" Clary said, looking around to see if anyone heard Isabelle's blunder. "God, Iz. And you know he knows what I do."

"Oh, chill. No one heard me." She continued stretching as if Clary weren't about to smack her upside the head. "Well, maybe he thinks—like I did—that you're being smarter about this than you are."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means," Isabelle looked her in the eye, "that you can't do all the stuff you used to do. You can't fly up in the air and hope someone catches you like before. You have to be smart, cautious. I thought that's why you stopped wanting to fly during practice."

"Well, it was. I just . . ."

"You just what?"

Clary drew in a breath. "I just don't want to let everyone down."

"You're not, all right? You're not."

Clary shook her head and stood. "I think I need a walk."

Isabelle grinned and stood next to her, slinging her arm around Clary's shoulder. "I've got just the thing to make you feel better." She turned to Maia. "We're taking a walk. Be back in fifteen."

"Wait," Maia scrambled to her feet. "But we need to practice. We need—"

"We have four and a half hours, Maia. I don't think fifteen minutes will make or break us."

Maia narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest. "Fifteen minutes. No more."

Isabelle rolled her eyes and dragged Clary toward the doors at the back of the gym. "Jeez, who died and made her the boss?"

"Um, we did," Clary said. "When we made her team captain."

"God, that was stupid."

Clary laughed. "So . . . where are you taking me?"

"Oh, nowhere." Isabelle grinned, and hit the back door with her hip, letting in a draft of chilly air and sunlight.

Clary held her hand over her brow and peered out into the brightness. It was the back of the school, close to where she'd come to warn Jace a couple of weeks before. She could see the small shed and the back of the stands, the field and the track.

"Izzy, what are we—"

But there was no need to finish her question, because she saw exactly why Isabelle had brought her back there. On the very end of the field were three guys, one older and two around Clary's age. The older man stood off to the side, his hand moving as if he were giving instructions, and the two younger ones stood side by side, their backs to Clary, listening. It only took a moment to read the big: Wayland and Verlac, on the backs of the boys' shirts.

Isabelle elbowed Clary in the arm before smiling once more. "Nice, right?"

"How'd you know where they'd be?"

"Sebastian told me he'd be here helping Jace out." She shrugged. "I thought maybe you'd want to see him. I know you haven't for a couple of weeks."

Clary's stomach flipped and she swallowed against the want. The same want from last night. "Why would I want that?"

"Oh, honey," Isabelle laughed and hugged Clary to her side, "you're seriously not fooling anyone."

Clary frowned. "Really? No one? I thought I was doing a pretty decent job."

"No. Not a single one."

"Not even him?"

"Well, maybe him . . . But he's a guy, and guys are dumb."

Clary pressed her head against the cool metal door jam and watched as the boys threw the ball back and forth. It didn't look much like they were practicing at the moment, but more goofing around. Even so, Jace's throw was extremely accurate and smooth. Sebastian's was good, but not near the level of Jace's.

Isabelle put her head on Clary's shoulder and watched with her. "It's okay if you want him, Clary."

"Is it? Because it really doesn't feel like it is."

"Why not?" Isabelle looked up at her.

"I don't know. I've been trying to figure that out, believe it or not."

"Oh, I believe it." Isabelle straightened as the boys jogged off the field and toward the school. "You think too much and feel too little." She grabbed Clary's head and held her so she was facing where Jace and Sebastian were nearing. "I mean, look at that boy. What is there not to want?"

And Clary looked. He was close enough now that she could make out that he was in his football pants and practice jersey. He wore no helmet, but she just figured he was practicing throwing with pads on and didn't need it. Sebastian ran beside him and the two were laughing and pushing each other. He looked happy, he looked carefree. He looked perfect.

"Nothing," she said in a quiet voice. "There's nothing not to want. He's perfect."

"Mmhmm," Isabelle hummed. "So you know what I think?"

"What?"

"I think you should let yourself have what's already yours."

.o.O.o.

"Dude . . ." Sebastian's eyes grew wide as he and Jace came in through the doors next to the gym. "Am I dead?"

"What?" Jace peered at Sebastian, his brows raised.

"Am I dead?" he repeated. "I think I'm dead. When you hit me out there, I think you separated my brainstem from my brain. There's no other explanation except that I'm dead."

"What the hell are you talking about? Explanation for what?"

"This," Sebastian waved his hand slowly in front of him. "This glorious apparition. I must be in heaven."

Jace turned to look. Lining almost every available wall, were girls. No—not girls, cheerleaders. Cheerleaders in short skirts and half shirts, or tight pants and tight shirts. But it wasn't their barely-there clothing or even the fact that they were everywhere that had Sebastian's mouth draped open and drool dripping from the corner. It was the fact that all of those girls were stretching their bodies in ways that would make any teenage guy's mind go places, very nice, very dirty places.

Normally Jace would be staring right along with Sebastian—there was nothing hotter than a girl that could bend in every direction—but today, not even that could hold his attention. Jace looked past all of those extended legs and bent over frames for a flash of red. He couldn't seek her out, knowing that would only push her away. He felt like he was walking on a thin layer of glass with her: one misplaced step, one misbalance of weight and he'd crash through. It was frustrating and exhausting, but that didn't stop him from wanting what he wanted. So he continued to tread lightly, waiting on her, waiting _for_ her.

In front of him, there was an abundance of color, but none of it what he was looking for. With a sigh of disappointment, he nudged Sebastian's arm and gestured to the weight room on their left.

"Come on, man," he said. "Let's finish this. You can continue flooding the hallway with drool later."

"But . . ." Sebastian protested.

Jace ignored him and moved through the doors to the weight room. He stepped inside and was greeted with the same odor as usual: feet, dust, and sweat. Walking across to the back of the room, he stripped off his jersey and pads, leaving only the tight, black under armor he wore beneath his uniform. He dropped his pads next to the wall of mirrors behind the weight benches, and Sebastian moved up next to him.

"Look at us, Sunshine." Sebastian turned to the side, flexed his bicep, then kissed it. "We are a couple of total studs. It's probably a good thing you got us out of that hallway. We'd have had a cheerleader stampede if we'd stayed any longer."

"I don't think you would have objected to that." Jace turned and walked over to the nearest free-weight bench.

"That's true," Sebastian followed, "I have no objections to being on the bottom a cheerleader pile. Nope, none at all."

Jace placed several weights on the bar and lay lack on the bench, lining his hands up on the grips and lifted. "Not that I care, but aren't you dating Isabelle?" He lowered the bar to his chest, breathing out as he pushed back up, feeling the burn radiate through his pecs.

Sebastian stood at Jace's head, his hands cupped under the bar and moving with it, just in case Jace needed help. "Yeah, but we're not exclusive or anything."

"Does she know that?"

"Of course," Sebastian said. "I mean, I think she does . . ."

Jace pushed up on the bar again and replaced it on the stand behind him. "You better find out." He sat and wiped the sweat from his forehead. "You piss her off and I'm not going to help you search for your balls when she rips them off."

Sebastian grimaced. "You're right." He looked toward the door. "Maybe I should go find her."

Jace laughed, removed some of the weight so he could lift without a spotter and lay back down on the bench. "If I were you, I'd wear a cup."

Sebastian froze. "Good point." He started toward the locker room. "I'll be back in a few."

Jace shook his head as Sebastian left the room, and lifted the bar from the holders once more. This time it was pretty light, easy to do his sets without getting too tired. He tried to concentrate on what he was doing—letting your mind wander while lifting was never a good thing—but he couldn't stop himself from thinking about her. He could never stop himself from thinking about her.

Jace hadn't expected to talk to Clary at all the night before, but after the team's win over St. Pete's all he'd wanted was to tell her about it. She was the only one he wanted to talk to. He was proud and he wanted her to be proud too.

In the two weeks since the doctor's appointment, Jace had made it a point to at least text her every day. She kept telling him he didn't know her, and she'd been right. But what she didn't seem to understand was that he wanted to. He asked her everything he could think of: _What's your favorite memory?_ (Her brother trying to teach her to ride a bike and getting his hair stuck in the spokes—how, Jace had no idea, but it didn't surprise him, considering it was Jonathan Morgenstern.) _What's your favorite color?_ (Prism—for an artist, no one color could ever be enough.) _What's your favorite thing to draw?_ (She'd refused to answer, but told him maybe she'd show him someday.) But the most interesting had been when he'd asked her what her favorite song was.

"True Colors by Cyndi Lauper," she'd replied.

Jace frowned and stared up at his ceiling, his hand clutching the phone to his ear. "Seriously? That eighties song?"

"Yeah. Do you have a problem with classic rock?"

He laughed. "No, but I really don't think Cyndi Lauper is considered "rock"."

"Whatever," she'd said. "I don't really care. I just know I like it."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why that song?"

"I like what it says. What it promises."

"And what's that?"

She paused, and Jace could hear breathing through the earpiece. "Acceptance. Acceptance for who we really are and the promise that we can be loved and be seen as beautiful by someone."

He'd wanted to tell her he thought she was beautiful, but she was so skittish anyway, he decided keeping his mouth shut was probably the best thing he could do.

It was the weirdest thing for him, because the more he asked, the more he wanted to know. With other girls—mainly Kaelie—Jace had never been interested in what they had to say. To be fair, Kaelie mainly talked about shopping and clothes and her moronic friends—stuff Jace didn't give a shit about. She was a shallow, narcissistic bitch—all the things Clary wasn't. Honestly, Jace could not understand how he stood being with her for two years.

But, Clary—he didn't know how to describe her. She was so closed off, so scared to share too much of herself, but Jace could tell that underneath all of that fear and hurt, there was an amazing girl just waiting for someone to want her enough to bring her out. And he wanted her enough. He wanted her more than enough.

A waft of perfumed air passed over Jace as he pushed against the bar once more and he rolled his eyes. Sebastian must have found himself a cheerleader pile up after all. "You're such a douchebag, Seb. But, whatever, they're your balls."

"Well, I don't have any balls, but you already know that, don't you?"

Jace nearly dropped the bar and twisted his head toward the voice. Kaelie stood beside the bench, wearing only a smirk and his jersey. She twisted a lock of blonde hair around her finger and stared down at him. Her bare legs were only inches from his face.

"Great, now I'm going to have to burn that." He nodded toward his jersey. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"You didn't return my text last night," she said, a pout forming on her lips.

"Because I don't want to talk to you. I thought I made that pretty clear." He went to push the bar up and replace it on the rack, but Kaelie leaned down and placed both her hands over his, using her added weight to keep him from moving. Jace frowned and pushed against the weight, but it didn't budge. "Get off," he said.

She grinned, keeping her hands on the bar, and swung her leg over his abdomen until she was straddling him. Jace caught a flash of black lace under his jersey. Damn it, she was practically naked under there. "Oh, I'd like too, baby. Wanna help?"

"Kaelie," Jace pushed harder against the bar, but she just leaned forward, putting more of her weight against it. "Get off me." His arms shook underneath her, the bar digging into his hands as he held it just inches above his chest.

"Not until we talk," she said. Her hair hung like a waterfall around his face, and every time he drew in a breath all he could smell was her perfume and shampoo. It was so overpowering he wanted to gag.

"Get off from me and we can talk," he grunted as his strength faltered and the bar slipped closer. He could feel the coolness of it across his sternum. On any normal day he could just push her off, but he was already tired, already spent from the morning's workout. The weight of the bar combined with hers was too much for his tired arms.

Kaelie shook her head. "I don't believe you anymore, Jace." She leaned in, pushing the bar into him. Pain ripped through his sternum, and he tried again to push her and the bar back, but he couldn't get either to budge. He was trapped by the bar and the girl, crushing his chest. Her lips brushed the side of his face, and she whispered, "Why'd you have to play so hard to get this time?"

"We're never together during the season," he forced the words out. "You know that."

"This is different," she said. "You're different this time. You don't look at me like you used to."

Jace tried to twist to the side, to make them topple off the bench, but she had her knees and thighs locked around his waist, making him immobile. "God, Kaelie," he gasped, each breath becoming harder and harder to get out with the pressure of the bar on his chest. His arms burned and his hands hurt like hell from pushing against both her and the weights. But none of that compared to the ache in his chest. It felt like the bar was imbedding itself into his bones. "You've got to get off from me."

"Why don't you want me anymore?" she asked, ignoring everything he said, too inside her own head to hear his gasps and pleas. "We were so good together. Remember, baby? Remember how I made you feel?" Her lips trailed along his jaw. "I can make you feel like that again if you'd just let me. Let me, Jace." Her mouth closed over his, and he couldn't breathe at all. Couldn't breathe, couldn't speak, couldn't move. Sparks flashed in front of his eyes as he tried once more to push her away. But it was no use, his grip faltered even more. The bar dug into him, and his chest screamed.

His eyes slipped shut as the pressure became too much. And then it was gone. All of it, Kaelie's weight, the bar, everything. His arms flopped down and clanged against the side of the bench. He heard shouts and cursing and felt warmth on his face.

"Jace?"

He heard his name, recognized the voice, but he couldn't place it, couldn't open his eyes. The pain in his hands and chest burned. The warmth on his face moved across it, pushing his hair away.

"Open your eyes," the voice said again. He liked the voice, wished it would talk some more.

"Oh, come on!" Another voice came, this one high and agitated. Jace didn't like this one at all. "We were just having a little fun. You guys don't need to freak out."

Jace drew in a breath and it hurt, it hurt so much he didn't want to draw in another.

"Are you insane, Kaelie?" a male voice said. "You were pushing the bar into his chest! Were you trying to kill him?"

"Oh, don't you even think about going over there, Ms. Skankypants," a different female chimed in.

"Is he okay?" The male voice again. And Jace's head started to clear. Sebastian, he recognized Sebastian and Kaelie, and . . . Isabelle?

"I don't know," the first voice said again, and suddenly, Jace knew that one too.

Slowly, he opened his eyes and met green ones.

Clary smiled and let out a relieved breath. "You okay?"

He took in another breath and grimaced. "My chest hurts," he forced out, lifting his hand to cover his sternum.

Clary looked down and Jace felt the neck of his shirt being tugged away from his body. Her breath caught and Sebastian swore.

"Really?" Sebastian said, turning to Kaelie and gesturing to Jace. "You were just screwing around?"

"We were! He can lift that much, no problem. I've seen him do it before." Kaelie thrust her hand toward the bar resting on the stand above Jace's head.

"Not when you combine your weight to it!" Sebastian shouted. "Jesus, are you really that much of an idiot?"

Jace ran his hand over his chest and groaned. It hurt to even touch. Kaelie continued to make a commotion, but it seemed to fade away into the background as he looked up at Clary.

"You're already starting to bruise, but I think you'll be okay." She tried to smile, but Jace could tell it was forced. "Can you sit up?"

Jace nodded, and Clary held out her hand. He took it and pulled himself up, his head spinning for a few moments and his chest aching like he'd just been pressed under a car. "Ahh, shit," he said, and fanned his hand over his heart. He bent forward and clenched his eyes shut, breathing through the pain.

Clary knelt in front of him, one of her hands beside him on the bench and the other over his. "Let me see this." She removed his hand and held it in hers, tracing her fingers over the bright red section stretching across the middle of his palm. "This'll probably bruise too." She continued to touch him, and maybe it should have hurt, but he didn't feel anything except her fingers brushing across his.

The pain in his chest started to fade, not leaving completely, but lessening enough so he could breathe normally at least. Silence permeated the spaces around them, and Jace realized they were alone. Sebastian and Isabelle must have "escorted" Kaelie out. Damn, he hoped he got his jersey back or his dad would have his ass come practice on Monday.

"Are you all right?" Clary's voice brought him out of his head.

Jace looked down at her, only able to see the top of her head and the curves of her crimson stained cheeks. She was still touching him, her fingers sliding over his damaged hand, back and forth, back and forth, so soft, so careful.

"Yeah, but," he said, "what are you doing here?"

She paused, her fingers stilling. "Cheerleading competition. I told you about—"

"No," he said. "I know that. But . . ." Suddenly, he needed to see her face, needed to look into her eyes. He removed his hand from hers and touched two fingers to under her chin and lifted until her eyes met his. "What are you doing back here? Don't you need to warm up?"

She swallowed, and Jace felt her throat move against his fingertips. "I saw you outside. I just thought . . . well, I wanted . . . I wanted . . ." He waited several seconds for her to finish her thought, but she never did.

"I wanted to see you too," he said, taking a chance that that was what she was going to say.

Her eyes widened, and there it was, the confirmation he'd been hoping to see. "Yeah . . . though I didn't expect to find you with a half-naked girl straddling you."

Jace grimaced. "Yeah, about that—"

Clary held up a hand. "You don't need to explain. I kind of got the picture when we had to drag her off your almost unconscious body." She smiled, but it wasn't genuine. It was nervous and awkward instead. He wished she wouldn't be self-conscious with him. After a moment, she lifted her hand and swiped her thumb over his bottom lip. "You have a little lipstick here . . ."

Jace took her hand away from his face and held it against his chest. "I don't want her, Clary."

She looked up at him, her brows creased and eyes searching. "Why not?" she whispered. "How could you not? She's . . . she's perfect."

"She's not perfect," Jace said. "She's apparently kind of psycho." He smiled and she laughed a little. "But mostly, she's not you."

Clary squeezed her eyes tight and shook her head.

"Stop," he said, grasping her face between his hands. "You know how I feel, Clary. I've never kept that a secret. I want _you_. I'm going to continue to want you, no matter what girls like Kaelie do. And I'll wait until you want me back, or you tell me there's no chance in hell that's going to happen." He paused. "But you asked me to be your friend, and that's what I'm doing. I'll do it for as long as you need me to."

Clary bowed her head, his hands still cupping her cheeks. "I can't do this anymore," she whispered.

"What?" Jace let his hands slip from her face and felt his heart start to pound against his sore chest. "What do you—"

She looked up, and her eyes pleaded. "I can't keep doing this. I can't keep telling you—telling myself—that we're friends. We're not friends."

"What do you mean? Of course we are. God, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that. Just forget I said th—"

Clary covered his mouth with her hand, and it made him think back to a few weeks earlier when she'd done the same thing. It was so warm, so soft. Her eyes bore into his, and he could feel how she shook slightly. "We're not friends," she repeated in a whisper. "I kept trying to convince myself we were, because I needed so much to control this. But . . . but how can I when I . . ." she slowly lowered her hand from his mouth, her fingers trailing over his lips, "when I want . . ." her eyes moved from one of his to the other, then lowered to where her hand once was, "when I want . . ."

Jace swallowed and lowered both his hands to the bench in order to keep them off her. In order to prevent himself from grabbing her and pulling her to him. Clary leaned in just a little, and Jace wrapped his fingers around the edge of the seat.

"When I want . . ." she whispered once more, closing the distance between them.

Jace felt the heat of her breath on his mouth, and he closed his eyes, his blood rushing so fast through his veins it was the only thing he could hear, the only thing that existed except him. Except her. Until:

"You won't believe who just called, son."

Jace jerked back and twisted toward the door where his father stood, his cell phone in his hand, and a look of shock and horror on his face. His eyes moved between Jace and Clary, until realization dawned.

"Just what the hell is this?"

It took Jace a few seconds to grasp what his father was seeing. Jace was sitting sideways on the weight bench, both his hands clutching the edge for dear life, and Clary was kneeling on the floor in front of him.

"Oh, shit," he said.

Just then, Sebastian and Isabelle strode back into the room. Both of them froze when they noticed Jace and Clary, and then Jace's father.

"Shit, dude," Sebastian echoed.

Yes. Very helpful, thanks.

"Dad . . ." Jace said, at a loss for what to say. How to explain.

His dad moved further into the room, his eyes still wavering from Jace to Clary. "You haven't answered my question, son. What the hell is going on here?"

"It's—it's not what it—she was just helping me—" Jace looked back at Clary, and she was frozen in her spot, panicked, her hands on his thighs, her body positioned perfectly between his legs. Hell, this looked bad, or good, depending on who you asked.

"Yes, I can see that she was just about to 'help' you all right."

"Dad, that's not—"

"It's a smart move," he talked over Jace, his voice tight and clipped, "but I honestly never thought he'd stoop so low, whoring out his own daughter just to throw off our game." It took Jace a few moments to let his father's words sink in, to really get what he was saying. "I really shouldn't be surprised, though. Your mother's a whore, why shouldn't you be too?" his father said to Clary, "Now if you don't mind, please get your filthy hands off my son before you infect him."

Clary gasped and Jace finally found his voice, exclaiming, "Dad!" at the same time Isabelle said, "Hey!"

Clary's eyes were wide with shock, but she didn't move. Jace doubted she could.

"Are you deaf, girl? Get away from my son."

His father strode over to them and reached down, grabbing Clary by the arm and wrenching her up from her crouched position. A small cry fell from her lips and Jace bolted up with her, wrapping his hand around his dad's and trying to pull it away from Clary's arm.

"Dad. God. Let go of her!"

But his father didn't seem to be able to hear him. Jace clawed at his father's fingers, but they wouldn't budge. "You tell your father he's not going to win. He's not going to damage my son. Do you understand me? I won't let any of you ruin him the way your father did me. You tell him!"

Jace had never seen his father like this before, so much anger, so much hate filling his eyes. Finally, he threw Clary's arm away from him in disgust. She stumbled back a few steps, crashing into Jace's chest. But when he tried to steady her, she shook his hands off, as if his touch electrocuted her.

"Clary—" he said, but it was all he got out before he saw her face, before he saw the gleam of unshed tears in her eyes, and it was then he knew that whatever had just almost happened between them, was over.

It was over before it started.

All this time spent trying to know her, to get so close, so, so close, only to have his father ruin it all.

Without another word, Clary turned toward the door and ran from the room, taking the words she'd never really said and the kiss they never really had out with her.

.o.O.o.

Don't cry. God, please don't cry. Clary begged her stinging eyes as she flew out the door and down the hall. She heard Jace's voice, raised and angry, come from the room, followed by his father's. She tried to ignore the sound, to make herself not hear the words they spoke. Nothing Michael Wayland said about her would be nice.

_Your mother's a whore, why shouldn't you be?_

Clary choked on the accusation, the words echoing over and over in her mind. How did he know anything about her mother?

Isabelle called out to her, but Clary just shook her head and held her hand up to ward her friend away. She didn't want comfort right then. She didn't want anything but to get away, to stop the words and the sound of his voice bouncing around her head.

_I won't let any of you ruin him the way your father did me._

Clary had no idea what her father had done to Michael Wayland to make him hate her so much. The only thing that had ever been said was that they were football rivals. But how could that be? How could they both harbor so much venom toward one another over football? It made no sense.

Finally, she reached the end of the hall and ducked into an alcove. She slid down the wall and buried her face in her knees. Her arm throbbed where Jace's father had grabbed her, but it didn't hurt. It was more a throb of shame than pain. If he only knew . . . if he only knew that she _was_ ruining his son's life already. That the thing that lived inside her would ruin him far worse than anything her father could do.

It wasn't long before she heard footsteps approach and stop right next to her. The air shifted, and then there was a body seated beside her. She didn't have to look up to know who it was. They didn't speak for a long time; he just sat next to her, unmoving, barely breathing.

And then she broke the silence, "Does your chest still hurt?"

"Yeah," he said. "But I always ache around you."

Clary closed her eyes and leaned her head against the cold cinder block wall.

"Clary, I'm—"

"Don't," she said. "Just . . . don't, okay?"

Jace sighed and shifted beside her. His arm rubbed up against hers, and she tried so hard not to shiver. "Don't what?"

"Don't say you're sorry. You didn't do anything."

"But I _am_ sorry."

"No." Clary opened her eyes and turned toward him. "You're always apologizing and you never do anything wrong."

"I feel like I do."

"Well, you don't." She looked away from him, unable to stand all the mixed feelings looking at him gave her. Shame. Fear. Want. Need.

Jace reached out and carefully brushed his fingers over the red mark his father left on her skin.

"It doesn't hurt," she said before he could ask. And it was the truth. She could barely feel it anymore; the disgust inside covered any physical pain anyway.

"He shouldn't have touched you. Not for that, not for any reason." he said. "You know he's wrong, right? He's _wrong._"

Clary shook her head, still not looking at him. "He's not."

"Yes, he is." Jace shifted closer to her. "You're not—what he called you. You're not."

"Maybe not." She choked on the words and felt her eyes fill and spill over. "But I am ruining you." She swiped the tears away angrily. _Stop fricken crying!_ "He was right about that."

Jace didn't say anything for several moments, and Clary closed her eyes, fighting back any more tears that might be thinking about falling.

"Will you please look at me?" he asked.

She shook her head, her throat tightening.

"Please," he whispered.

Clary drew in a breath and blew it out slowly before turning toward him and opening her eyes. Physically, he looked the same as he always did, but he didn't _feel_ the same anymore. Gone was the boy he'd once been: the mystery boy from the party, the rival's son, the boy that scared her so much she felt the need to run and hide. He was now the boy who promised to be her friend, who called or texted her every night, who answered every question she asked no matter how stupid, who asked her dumb questions in return. While he would always be the boy that took her virginity when she was drunk and got her pregnant, he was also the boy that promised to stand by her no matter what.

And he was so beautiful it hurt.

"Do I look ruined to you?" he asked.

And for the first time ever, she let herself look at him, really look at him, and think the unthinkable, the one thing she hadn't allowed herself to think until now: _I want him so much._

Clary's eyes roved over his face. "No."

"Because I'm not, and I'm not going to be. Not by you anyway. This whole thing, our entire situation, it's on both of us. I won't ever blame you for whatever happens to me as a result of this. If anyone should be worried about ruining anyone it should be me."

Clary frowned. "Why do you say that?"

He looked down at the floor. "Because I'm the one who's been doing all the damaging." His eyes met hers, and she saw the same shame she felt inside of them. "From the moment we met, I've done nothing but hurt you. What we did . . . how we did it . . . I'm pretty sure it wasn't slow and it wasn't gentle. And for your first time, you deserved slow and gentle. You deserved to be with someone you cared about and who cared about you, and who would have taken his time to make sure he didn't hurt you so much. We both know that someone wasn't me. If I could take it back, Clary, I would. I would take it all back."

Clary's face burned, her heart pumping faster and faster to fill her overheated cheeks.

"And now you're going to have a baby. My baby. And that's going to hurt you too." He shook his head. "And there's not a damn thing I can do to stop that. There's nothing I can do to protect you from any of that." He swallowed, his throat moving visibly as he turned away. "So remember that the next time you think you might be ruining me. Remember that I'm the one who ruined you first."

Clary watched him for a few more seconds before she spoke. "I don't think you ruined me either, Jace." He finally looked up and met her gaze. There was so much sadness there, so much disgrace, all she wanted to do was take it away, to let him know she didn't blame him either. Her chest tightened. "But I'd be lying if I didn't say . . . this scares me. _You_ scare me." She didn't know where the words came from, but they were the truest things she'd ever said to him. "The way I feel scares me. It shouldn't be like this already. It shouldn't be so . . . much." She paused. "And I _am_ scared that I'm going to ruin you. That I'm going to ruin your life . . . that I already have. And I can't seem to let myself go, to let myself have what I want because of that."

His eyes were all over her, studying her, trying to figure her and her words out. "What _do_ you want, Clary?"

The words were at the tip of her tongue, filling her mouth, pummeling themselves against the sides and begging to get out._ You. You! I want you!_ But her brain still screamed caution. She'd almost caved in the weight room. She'd nearly kissed him; she'd nearly told him then and they'd nearly been caught. God, this was a bad idea, a stupid idea.

"Clary?" he said again, his brows drawn together in concern.

Her mind and heart battled with each other, and it seemed neither could pull ahead. And then he did something that made neither of them matter at all. He touched her. It wasn't much, nothing that could ever be construed as flirtatious or even on purpose. He simply touched her, just a brush of his finger against hers. Clary's breath caught and her heart slammed to a stop, and in that moment, her mind cleared. There were no more questions, no more fears. There was only silence. There was just him and her and the private little niche they'd found for themselves in the over-crowded halls.

It was now or never. It was now, when there was nothing holding her back. Slowly, she stretched her fingers the rest of the way across the tile and laid them over his. He glanced down and twisted his hand, so her fingers could slip between his. Clary felt that niggle of fear threaten to close her throat again, but this time, she would not let it.

"I want," she said, fighting past the tightness, fighting past the instinct to run, fighting past everything that held her back, fighting past herself, "I want you to kiss me this time."

And it was as if all air left the room, as if every person, animal, insect, and anything else that needed to breathe on the face of the earth held their breath, when really, it was only her. Jace's head rose, slowly, so slowly, and then his eyes were on her, big, shocked, and so gold. They took her in, swallowed her, drowned her.

"Are you sure?"

She couldn't speak, wouldn't speak, because if she did, she would tell him no. The denial was already there at the forefront of her mind, screaming at her, calling her an idiot, telling her she was just asking for heartbreak, because why, _why_ would this beautiful boy ever want her?

_Your mother was a whore, why wouldn't you be? I won't let any of you ruin him like your father did me._

Clary closed her eyes, pushed the thoughts away, and nodded. She couldn't think, she couldn't breathe.

"Clary," Jace said, "open your eyes."

At first she squeezed them tighter, unable to do as he asked. What if she freaked out? What if she pushed him away again? What if—

"Please," he whispered. "_I_ need to be sure."

Drawing in a breath, she held it and opened her eyes. He was still right in front of her; he hadn't moved, not even an inch.

"Now tell me again."

Clary let out the breath she'd been holding, and it shook as it crossed her lips. Hesitantly, she nodded. "I'm sure."

He continued to stare at her; his eyes never leaving her face, as he nodded once in return, and said, "Okay."

And with his gaze still locked on hers, he moved in slowly, so painfully slowly. Clary was hyper aware of everything, of the tension sparking off her skin, of the way her stomach squeezed and flipped, of the way her fingers tightened around his, holding on, anchoring her to him, to that moment.

It wasn't until he reached her, when his nose brushed against her nose, when the hair hanging over his forehead tickled hers, when she could feel the heat of his mouth against hers, that he finally closed his eyes. And it wasn't until his lips pressed fully against hers that she followed, plunging them both into darkness, into silence, where nothing else existed except them.

At first neither of them moved, they just stayed there, joined together by only their lips and hands. And Clary thought, even if this was it, the only time she kissed him, the only time she touched him like this, it would be enough, it could be enough.

Until he touched her again.

Jace lifted his other hand, tentatively touching the tips of his fingers to her face, so carefully, he was always so careful. They slid across her cheekbone and up into her hair, tangling with her curls and making her shiver. He kissed her once, twice, three times, so lightly, barely even there, and then he let out a breath, a breath that sounded as if he'd been holding it forever. His fingers tightened in her hair and his mouth parted slightly, drawing her top lip between his.

Clary's heart pounded so hard she was sure he could hear it, could feel it in her lips, but it didn't race out of fear. Not this time. This time it was more. This time it was everything. She didn't hold back, couldn't hold back any longer.

She opened herself more to him, her mouth, her mind, her heart. And then she could taste him, feel him everywhere, his hand in her hand, his fingers in her hair, his lips on her lips, his tongue against her tongue. And it was so right and so wrong and so everything. She wanted to kiss him until her lips were numb, until he'd swallowed every one of her breaths, until her heart stopped beating entirely.

She could kiss him forever.

And somewhere in the back of her mind, amidst the cloud of kissing and touching and being, she started to think that maybe, just maybe, she would.

* * *

><p>Until next time, XOXO ~ddpjclaf<p> 


	12. Let Me In

**Chapter Twelve: "Let Me In"**

_Okay, this chapter took forever to write. I had the vision of it in my head but the words just refused to come. I apologize!_

_I want to address one reviewer concern before we continue. I received a comment that expressed the reviewer was "surprised Clary wasn't exhibiting more pregnancy symptoms". Let me list the symptoms she has already talked about having: nausea, vomiting, excessive hunger, fatigue, he clothes starting to feel tight, vivid dreams, and difficulty sleeping. Honestly, guys, these are more symptoms than I had in ANY of my three pregnancies at this stage. Every person's pregnancy is different and you don't ALWAYS feel awful. Trust me to know what I'm talking about when it comes to pregnancy, symptoms, and how often they feel them. I have a LOT of experience there. ;) She is feeling an appropriate amount, she's just not thinking about it non-stop—which is also normal._

_Thank you to LLWB for the editing. Love you, girl!_

_Chapter Songs:_

_**A Thousand Miles – Vanessa Carlton (Texts)_

_**Mean to me – Tonic (Scene Jace)_

_**I Think God Can Explain – Splender (Scene Clary)_

_**We Are Young – Fun (Scene Pep rally)_

_**Without You – David Guetta ft. Usher (though I used the Glee cover by Lea Michele) (Last scene)_

* * *

><p><strong>Sunday:<strong>

_So, I'm not usually this much of a pussy about texting a girl after I've kissed her. ~J_

_ **Is that why you've waited a WHOLE DAY? ~C**_

_That and the inconvenience that is my father . . . But mostly that. ~J_

_ **Why? Am I that bad of a kisser? I'll have you know that my last boyfriend couldn't get enough of my mouth. ~C**_

_Shit. I don't want to hear about ANYONE being anywhere in the vicinity of your mouth. ~J_

_ **Can I talk about you being by my mouth? ~C**_

_*groans* No. Just . . . don't talk about your mouth at all, damn it. ~J_

_ **Did you seriously just type *groans*? Who does that? ~C**_

_ People who are groaning in response to your attempts at textular seduction! ~J_

_ **Aaaahahahahaha! TEXTULAR SEDUCTION! Aaaaahahahahahaha! ~C**_

_ . . . I really don't appreciate you mocking my pain. ~J_

_** How much pain could you really be in? ~C**_

_ Maybe I'll let you figure that out the next time you want me to kiss you . . . ~J_

_ **Aww, come on. I'm just having a little fun! ~C**_

_ . . . ~J_

_ **Pretty sure you won't be able to resist . . . ~C**_

_ . . . ~J_

_ **Are you really mad? ~C**_

_ . . . ~J_

_ **Jace? Come on . . . ~C**_

_ Gotcha. ~J_

_ **. Okay, now I'm mad. ~C**_

_ Haha! ~J_

_ **. . . ~C**_

_ Clary? ~J_

_ ** . . . ~C**_

_ Damn it. ~J_

_. . ._

**Monday:**

_ If you could pick any food to eat for the rest of your life, what would it be? ~J_

_ **Is this a serious question? ~C**_

_ Yes. Probably the most serious, most important question I could ever ask. ~J_

_ **Um, o-okay . . . well, then I'd have to say cinnamon and sugar donut holes. ~C**_

_ Out of every food in the entire world you pick donut holes? ~J_

_ **Cinnamon and sugar donut holes. And, yes. Why is that the most important question you could ever ask? ~C**_

_ Oh, no reason . . . ~J_

_. . ._

**Tuesday:**

** _SERIOUSLY, ARE YOU NOT GOING TO TELL ME WHAT WAS SO IMPORTANT ABOUT THE DONUT HOLES? ~C_**

_My lips are zipped tighter than a virgin's jeans. ~J_

_** Ew. ~C**_

_Sorry, one of Sebastian's more tasteless Seb-isms. Won't happen again . . . ~J_

_. . ._

**Wednesday:**

_**So . . . I'm super full and my fingers are all sticky. Care to guess what I've been eating? ~C**_

_Am I supposed to answer this in a non-perverted way? ~J_

_. . ._

**Thursday:**

_ What is this shit about a joint pep rally? ~J_

_ **Oh, you heard about that, huh? ~C**_

_ Yeah. Are you going to tell me what we're supposed to do? ~J_

_**No way! I've been sworn to secrecy, and if I told you I'd have to kill you. ~C**_

_Please just tell me I don't have to dress like a cheerleader ala Revenge of the Nerds. ~J_

_ **Well, you weren't going to have to, but I kinda like that idea. ~C**_

_ Shit . . . I do have particularly nice legs though. ~J_

_ **. . . Is it too forward to say that I can't wait to see you (and possibly your legs) tomorrow? ~C**_

_ Is it too dick-like to say I like it when you're forward? (And you can see my legs whenever you want. Just ask.) ~J_

_ **Yes. ;) (I'll keep that in mind) ~C**_

_ Well, I guess I'm a dick then . . . But I still like it. (I'll keep your legs in my mind too) ~J_

_ **. . . (Perv) ~C**_

_ Clary? ~J_

_ **Yeah? ~C**_

_ I can't wait to see you, either. ~J_

.o.O.o.

Jace could not stop thinking about the implications of Clary's texts the night before. Having to participate in anything with those Southeast douchebag football players was bad enough, but if he had to put on a skirt, someone's ass was getting kicked!

He tugged at the tie cinching tightly around his neck, then stuck his fingers between his collar and his skin. Damn it, he hated wearing ties! What the hell had possessed his father to institute a policy on dressing up on game days anyway? They were football players for Christ's sake, not political figures. But still, every Friday he found himself at school in a shirt and tie, with his jersey layered on top. Really, how asinine could he look? He was supposed to tuck in his shirt and look all studious or something, but he let it hang loose. No one could see it under his jersey anyway, which made having to wear it all the more idiotic.

Jace glanced up at the large round clock situated above the door. Two minutes. Thank God. He could not wait to get this damned tie off. And he couldn't wait to see Clary again. This once a week bullshit wasn't cutting it. Texting just wasn't enough. He wanted to look at her, touch her, but he hadn't been able to since last Saturday. And even though the reason why he was seeing her today wasn't exactly under the most desirable circumstances, he'd take it. Maybe she'd even let him kiss her again. He hoped like hell she would, because that kiss was unlike any he'd experienced before. All soft and wet and her . . .

Turning back toward the front of the class, he caught Kaelie staring at him, just before she averted her gaze. The entire week she'd been looking at him with that pathetic wounded puppy look, like he'd done something to her. Maybe she'd forgotten that _she'd_ been the one shoving a weighted bar into_ him_ last weekend, and _he_ was the one with a long purple bruise stretching the width of his chest.

He tapped his pencil on the side of the desk, earning a dirty look from Ms. Willis at the front of the room. Finally, the bell rang and Jace slid his books off the desk, tucking them into the bend of his arm and high-tailing it out of the room before Kaelie could corner him.

"Jace!" He heard her call.

"Shit," he muttered to himself and kept walking faster. Several teammates lifted their chins to him in greeting, and he lifted his in return. Other kids closed in around him as he moved through the crowd, almost like they knew the last thing he wanted was for Kaelie to catch him. He heard her calling out to him as he worked his way toward his locker but acted as if he didn't. It was easy to fake since it was so loud with all the slamming of doors and rowdy voices.

Sebastian joined him about halfway down the hall. "So, what's the deal with this pep rally tonight? Are they serious about this shit?"

"I guess. Dad was pissed as hell about it."

Sebastian snorted a laugh. "No doubt. I can just see how well Coach took the news of a joint assembly with Southeast. He must've shit a brick."

"More like a ton of them. It's bad enough that we're playing them again." And it was. Jace's father had been uptight, even more than usual, as he planned for this rematch between Southeast and Northwest. It wasn't an exhibition game this time. This was the game that would send one of them to the playoffs and hopefully State.

"Iz told me the cheerleaders have something planned together. Said it involved us, but wouldn't spill what. Did Shortcake give you a heads up?"

Internally, Jace cringed at Sebastian's acknowledgement of Clary. It was strange enough that he knew she and Jace were talking, but to mention her so casually at school made Jace more than on edge. He liked it being private, not because she was pregnant and he wanted to hide (though there was that), but because he liked her being just his. The idea of her, the reality of her, it didn't matter. The way things were right now, with them and whatever they were being a secret, she was just his and his alone.

"Nope. She said it was top secret and if she told me she'd have to kill me." Jace glanced over his shoulder, seeing Kaelie still fighting through the crowd to get to him. "And I don't really think she was kidding."

"Damn, dude, that girl is seriously kick ass. You should hear some of the shit Iz tells me." Sebastian whistled. "If you weren't all up on that I'd be tempted—"

"Finish that sentence and you won't be able to piss for a week."

Sebastian held up his hands and laughed. "Damn, she's totally got you whipped already."

"All right, that's it, asshole." Jace reached for Sebastian, but Seb spun out of his grasp and jogged a few paces backward, a huge grin plastered across his face.

"You know I'm kidding, bro. I would never mess with your girl." He lifted his chin and continued toward the doors. "I'll catch you at the rally." And then he was gone, disappeared into the throng of students in front of him.

But all Jace could concentrate on were Seb's words echoing in his head: _his girl, his girl, his girl_. Was that what she was? Jace shook the thought from his head and walked the last few steps to his locker. Unfortunately, by the time he got there, Kaelie was right on his tail.

"Running away? Real mature, Jace," she said.

He swung open the door and placed his books inside. God, why couldn't she just leave him the hell alone already? "What do you want, Kaelie?" Jace asked without looking at her. Damn it, his God-damned tie was choking him to death. He stuck his fingers in the knot and pulled until it loosened.

"I just want to talk."

"I've got somewhere to be, plus, I don't have anything to say to you." He slammed the door shut, and started to walk away.

Kaelie grabbed his arm. "Well, I have something to say to _you_."

Jace froze. "Get your damn hands off me."

She let go and crossed her arms over her chest, her eyes narrowing. "You don't need to be such a jerk. You know I wasn't trying to hurt you the other day."

"I don't know what you were trying to do and I don't really give a shit."

"I just wanted you to listen."

"Oh, right," he laughed, sarcastically. "So that's why you weren't wearing anything but my jersey and a thong, because you wanted to talk."

Her eyes brightened. "You noticed my panties?"

"How could I not? You practically sat on my face before you tried to kill me. You know that doesn't do it for me, Kaelie. I prefer my girls with a little more self respect."

Her face fell. "Why do you have to be such an asshole?"

Jace thrust his hand into his hair in frustration. "Because I want you to leave me the hell alone! I'm not sure why that's so hard for you to understand." His voice echoed off the walls in the hall and all the voices around him quieted to almost nothing. People were staring, and as much as he loved attention, this wasn't the kind he usually wanted. But despite the fact that he wasn't all that thrilled with everyone in school listening to his business, he wasn't finished. "We've gone over this shit so many times already, Kaelie. I'm over this, over us. I've tried to be nice, I've tried to be an ass, but you just don't get it. What do I have to do to make you get that I don't want you anymore?"

Kaelie stared at him, her blue eyes wide and disbelieving. "You don't mean that. You can't mean that," her voice lowered, "I was your first. That's special, Jace. We're special."

"Special? We've never been special." Jace leaned in, close enough that he could see his reflection in her eyes. "You just liked me on your arm, showing me off to all your stupid friends. Your pretty little toy. And I admit it was convenient. No work. No fuss. No feelings. Just fun and sex and image. But that's all it was."

"That's not true. I have feelings for you. I lo—"

"Don't say you love me. You don't love me. If you did, you wouldn't be hooking up with half the school when we're not together." She looked like she wanted to retort. "But I don't give a shit who you screw. You can do anyone you want. Actually, you always could. I didn't give a shit then either."

Kaelie narrowed her eyes and poked him in the chest with one of her long, purple nails. Jace bit back the urge to grimace when the pain from his bruise radiated through him. "This is about her isn't it? You've never acted this way before. You were always happy to be with me. I had you in my bed the very night the season was over. It has to be that little Southeast slut! You know who she is, don't you? You know that she's a Morg—"

Without thinking, Jace grabbed Kaelie by the upper arm, cutting off her words abruptly. "Shut the hell up before you say something you're going to regret." He could feel the anger boiling in his veins. How did Kaelie know anything about Clary? "You don't know anything about anything, so just shut your God-damned mouth! This has nothing to do with anyone but you."

"Don't lie to me," she spat. "I saw her with you last weekend. The way she looked at you, the way she touched you . . . I'm not an idiot! The least you could do is tell me the truth! You owe me that much."

"I don't owe you shit. Just because we've been together doesn't mean you own me. And it doesn't mean you automatically get me back once the season is done. I can be with whoever the hell I want and you can't do or say anything about it. I'm tired of this shit, of your shit. I've been tired of it and I'm not going to do it anymore. We're done. We've been done. You got it?"

Kaelie's eyes glazed over, like frost stretching from one edge of the lake to the next, covering any depth and emotion that might lurk beneath. She was pissed, and he didn't care. He honestly didn't care. Stepping back, he tossed her arm away from him.

"Don't call me. Don't text me. Don't talk to me at all. Just leave me the hell alone." Turning toward the front of the school, he watched as people averted their gazes and whispered to one another. The hisses of their words and breath slithered down his back like a snake. He knew the scene was ugly, that to anyone on the outside he looked like a complete asshole, and that people would be talking about it for days. But he just kept walking, his head held high and his back straight as if he couldn't care less. He felt their stares bore into him as he went. Just before he reached the doors, he turned and met Kaelie's angry gaze. There was one more thing he needed to say. "And consider my debt for the notes paid. It took me forever to get that damn red lipstick off my face."

And then he turned back to the doors, pushed them open, and escaped into the parking lot, leaving Kaelie and half the student body gaping after him.

.o.O.o.

The athletic storage room smelled like mold and moth balls. Clary held her hand over her nose as she peered up at Izzy's blue spanky-covered butt. Her stomach had already been giving her fits that day and the smell wasn't helping anything. A plume of dust wafted down as Isabelle moved another box from one of the upper shelves, standing on the ladder rung on her tip toes to reach further.

"Maybe they moved them somewhere else." Clary's voice came out muffled from behind her hand.

"No, I was here when Maia put them back. I just have to get the right box." She looked down at Clary. "You don't have to stay in here if the smell is bugging you. I'll find them."

Clary shook her head. "It's fine. I'm the one that needs it, not you. You know, I could look myself."

"Are you kidding me?" Isabelle frowned. "You can't even breathe right in here." She turned back to the shelf in front of her. "Plus, I don't want you climbing up here. This ladder isn't very sturdy, and your balance sucks ass lately." She reached into the dark space, and Clary heard the scraping of another box. "Aha, here we go. Look out," Isabelle said, and Clary took a few steps backward. A large box fell to the ground, landing with a thud.

Clary moved over to it and swiped her hand over the dust-covered top, revealing the label: varsity cheerleading. Isabelle jumped from the last rung of the ladder and pulled the box open. Several sets of extra uniforms and poms poked out of the top.

"What size do you think you need?" Isabelle asked, clawing through the contents.

"Um, I don't know," Clary said, fingering the back of her skirt, which was now held together by nothing but a safety pin since she couldn't do it up anymore.

"Here, try this." Isabelle held out a blue skirt, the gold and white inner pleats peeking through.

Clary took it, slipped off her old skirt, and pulled the new one on over the scarcely noticeable bulge in her stomach. She averted her eyes from the area, barely able to look at it without feeling sick. Over the last few days it had really started to pop out. It wasn't really obvious to anyone else—at least Clary didn't think so—but if they did notice, they probably wouldn't think it was anything more than a bloated abdomen after a large meal. But Clary noticed, especially when none of her jeans would do up anymore and all of her tight shirts showed more shape down there instead of the flat stomach she was used to. Luckily, Isabelle was a few sizes bigger and all her Capri pants fit Clary like full-length jeans. At least she had something to wear, along with baggy dresses and leggings. It wasn't her normal style, but it was all she had at the moment, so she tried not to complain.

"Well?" Isabelle asked.

Clary pulled the fabric together in the back, but the closer the sides got, the more the band cut into her stomach. She shook her head and felt her eyes sting. "Too small."

Isabelle's face fell, but she reined it in quickly. "Okay, how about this?" She held out another skirt.

Clary slipped that one on and did it up easily. She nodded. "Yeah. This is better." Though she knew it wasn't. It may have fit around her waist but the pleats went too far down her thighs, making her look like she was one of those cheerleaders from the fifties that wore knee-length skirts and ankle socks. A lump formed in her throat and angry tears blurred her vision. She blinked rapidly to push them back.

Isabelle didn't say anything, didn't offer any comfort, because she knew that wasn't what Clary wanted. Nobody could give her what she wanted, and that was to go back. To go back and make herself not pregnant. But even as much as she wanted to change that moment, there were others that had happened afterward that she didn't want to change. Like the one at the fountain after her last doctor visit, or the kiss in the hallway only six days before. Unfortunately, without that moment in Sebastian Verlac's bathroom, none of the others would have happened, either.

After Isabelle replaced the box back on the shelf, she slung her arm across Clary's shoulders, and led her to the gym where the big combined pep rally was to be. It was decked out almost like a prom, not with sparkling beads and fake snowflakes, but with streamers and banners and signs with both Southeast's and Northwest's colors and mascots. The gold, maroon, and blue wove together, signifying a unity that didn't exist outside of this room. But for today, they were all going to pretend.

It was something the schools had talked about doing for some time. The feud between her father and Jace's wasn't necessarily something shared by the community. Sure, everyone had their favorite team, but all in all, they cheered for both. The city was fiercely proud of both schools and had been clamoring about a combined rally for the last game of the season for most of the year. Also, Clary thought the administration was getting pretty sick of the mudslinging happening between the teams and wanted to see them do something together. Clary wasn't so sure how that was going to turn out. For the last two hours, they'd been working on the dance routine they'd concocted with Northwest's cheerleaders. Needless to say, none of them were completely pleased about the arrangement, either.

"There's no way this is going to work," one of the Northwest cheerleaders was saying as Izzy and Clary came back into the gym, "our guys are not going to be cool with this."

"And you think ours are?" Maia said, her hands on her hips, like always. "That's why we haven't told them what we're doing yet."

"What makes you think they're going to cooperate once the rally starts? What if they refuse and we end up looking like idiots?"

"They won't," Isabelle stepped forward.

"But how can you be sure?" the girl asked again.

"Because we're going to start with the stars first. The quarterbacks, the receivers, etcetera," Isabelle said. "We all know they can't resist being in the spotlight. Once they go along with it, the others will follow the leader like little lost puppies." Her eyes flashed briefly to Clary's. "I know one of your lineman and your QB from my brother. They'll cooperate."

Clary knew that wasn't exactly true. Isabelle did know Sebastian through her brother, Alec, but she'd only met Jace after Clary had.

"Yes, Isabelle, I'm fully aware of how you know my brother, but our quarterback?" another of the girls said, then laughed. "Even if Jace Wayland did cooperate, I guarantee if any of you try to touch him, his girlfriend will be on you so fast you won't know what happened. She's a vicious harpy. He's my brother's best friend and not even I can get that close to him without her claws coming out—and I don't even swing that way."

Clary felt as if someone had punched her in the gut. His girlfriend? But he'd told her . . . Isabelle gave her a questioning look, but Clary just shook her head slightly and looked away.

"Omigod, Annika, you didn't hear?" one of the Northwest girls said.

"No, what?" Annika asked.

The girl bounced on the balls of her feet. "Okay, so check this out," the girl seemed to forget they were surrounded by Clary and her team, but there was no way Clary was saying anything. She wanted to hear this, "After last period today, JW and K had a total blow out in the middle of the hall!"

"Seriously?" Annika's eyes almost bugged out of her head. "Damn Sebastian! I always miss everything good because of him!"

"Seriously. He totally crushed her. Told her he was done with her and for her to stay away from him. It was the most epic of breakups ever!"

"As fascinating as this is," Maia started, and Clary wanted to stab her in the eye for interrupting, "can we get back to the task at hand?"

The Northwest cheerleaders turned to face them, half of them with their arms crossed over their chests and the others with their hands on their hips. Clary's pulse raced and her breathing came quickly. She wanted to know what had happened between Jace and Kaelie. As far as she knew, things were over between them before today, and he hadn't mentioned her once in their texts during the week, so what had happened to spark the show?

Maia stepped into the space between the two squads. "Earlier we wrote out the numbers of each of the starting players onto strips of paper and put them in a hat." She pointed to where Isabelle and another member of Southeast's cheer team, Alana, stood, holding the hats. "Izzy has the Northwest players and Alana has the Southeast players. Pick one and that will be your player. He'll be the one you target and pull into the rally."

"Again," Annika said, "what if he won't cooperate?"

"Make him," Maia said, exasperated, and turned to Izzy and Alana. "Okay girls, let's pick our men."

Clary stood between a couple of her squad members, her stomach flipping as Izzy made her way down the line. What if someone else got Jace? She didn't want any of these other girls touching him, even if it was just for a pep rally! As Isabelle got closer, the more worried Clary became. How would she watch one of these other girls with him? Doing what she knew they were going to be doing. Finally, Isabelle stopped front of her, and Clary met her eyes.

"Your turn," she said.

Clary swallowed and reached into the bag, but just as her hand slipped inside, she felt Isabelle pinch her from outside. She furrowed her brows and looked up. Izzy shook her head minutely and slipped her hand up the side of the hat. Clary pulled hers almost out, and Isabelle slipped a piece of paper into her palm. With a wink, she moved on to the next cheerleader.

After looking around to see if anyone had been watching the exchange, Clary glanced down at the slip of paper. As carefully as she could with slightly trembling hands, she opened it to reveal her partner for the rally. A small grin tugged at her lips when she saw the number seven scrawled in black ink across the center.

.o.O.o.

"What in the actual hell?" Sebastian pulled to a stop just inside the doors of Northwest's gym. "This looks like the school spirit fairy violently vomited all over the place."

Jace stood next to him and nodded his head in agreement. It really did look hideous. The maroon and blue mixed together and looked more like giant bruises than decorations. Of course, that would be appropriate considering they were going to beat the shit out of Southeast tonight.

"Listen up, guys." Jace's father stepped up in front of the group. He looked obviously uncomfortable being inside Southeast's gym. "I really don't know what they have planned here, but it's not like we have much choice. Just . . . suck it up, be men, and then we'll dominate on the field tonight. Got it?"

"Yes, Coach!" the guys called out in unison.

"Very good." Coach Wayland nodded to a row of chairs set up in front of the bleachers—probably ones they used for basketball games. They were blue with a gold "KNIGHTS" printed across the back. "Take a seat. People are already starting to arrive. We have to put on a show for the bigwigs." Jace's father turned his back and walked away, shaking his head in disbelieving annoyance.

Sebastian leaned into Jace. "Oh, yeah, total ton of bricks were shat in the Wayland household this week."

Jace elbowed Sebastian and followed the rest of his team toward the chairs designated for them. As he crossed the gym, his eyes fell on a group of blue and gold uniformed girls. He tried to be as inconspicuous as possible as he looked for her red head, but he saw her nowhere. Just before he turned away, he caught a pair of black eyes. Isabelle rubbed her stomach the way one might do if they'd had a good meal, then stuck her finger into her mouth as if she were gagging herself. Jace frowned. What the hell was that?

Finally, Isabelle rolled her eyes and cocked her head toward a set of extended bleachers that were, so far, unoccupied. Jace managed to slip away from his team with the excuse that he was thirsty, and followed Isabelle into the dark. Once he ducked under the bleachers, he found her leaning against one of the posts that held the seats up.

"Don't you know anything about charades?" she asked before he had a chance to speak. "Those gestures were completely obvious."

"Yes, because playing party games is exactly how spend my free time," he said. "What was all that?"

Isabelle tucked a strand of dark hair that had come loose from her ponytail behind her ear. "I saw you looking for her, so I was just trying to tell you she wasn't here."

"I kind of figured that when I didn't see her." Jace leaned against a post across from Isabelle. "Where is she?"

Isabelle let out a breath and glanced to the opening of the bleachers. "It's not a very good day for her, you know, with the whole being with child and everything," she said. Jace just gave her a blank, unamused stare. She continued as if she didn't even notice, "She's been feeling pretty pukey all day, and one of your cheerleaders is wearing some kind of fruity body lotion or something that keeps making her gag, so she left for a bit to get some air."

"Oh," Jace said. "But she's okay?"

"Well, if you call wanting to puke every five seconds every single day okay, then yeah."

"Every day?" Jace frowned. "But . . . I've talked to her every day this week. She said she was fine. Better . . ."

"You think she's going to tell you about feeling like crap all the time? No offense but . . . you're a guy, you can't begin to understand."

Jace was getting so tired of this shit. Just because he was born with a dick instead of a uterus, didn't mean he couldn't understand. No, he couldn't physically feel it, but he could appreciate that Clary did. He crossed his arms over his chest and glanced toward the opening leading to the gym. It wouldn't help him to say anything; Isabelle would just come up with another reason why he was a clueless male.

After a few moments, he saw Isabelle look at him from the corner of his eye.

"She told me about what happened last week. After your dad, you know, practically assaulted her," she said.

Jace shoved his hands into his pockets. He still felt a stab of anger every time he thought about his father grabbing Clary like that, saying the things he said to her. "I figured she would."

"You better mean what you're saying to her, what you're doing. She doesn't need any more bull from anyone. Especially now."

"I'm not really in the habit of saying things I don't mean." But he was beginning to wonder if Clary was. So many times during the week he'd asked how she was doing, and she always said she was fine. According to Isabelle, she was anything but.

"Yeah, well, just be good to her, okay? I really don't want to have to beat your ass."

"I'm trying."

"Don't try," she pushed herself away from the post and leaned into him, "just do." And then she walked back out into the gym.

Jace let out a breath and leaned his head back against the post. He couldn't help but feel frustrated. He'd specifically asked Clary how she'd been feeling and she'd said fine. She always said fine. Why wouldn't she just tell him she was still so sick? He didn't ask her for shits and giggles, he really wanted to know. Yeah, he got that maybe it was embarrassing, but when he said they were in this together, he meant it. He couldn't help that he was a dude, that he didn't gain weight or get sick or have weird pains. There were only so many things he could do at this stage, like send her cinnamon donut holes or whatever else kept her happy, and he knew this. But her keeping from him how sick she really was, or how much pain she was really in made him feel even more useless and more like she didn't trust him.

A crackle of static sounded through the air, and Jace turned toward the opening to the bleachers. The sound signaled that it was almost time, almost time to get this shitty assembly over. With a sigh, he made his way out into the now surprisingly full gymnasium. It shocked him how big of a deal this seemed to be to the community. Why did they care about seeing the two schools together? They were rivals; they were supposed to hate each other. That was just how that shit worked.

As he crossed the floor, he couldn't help but scan the crowd of Southeast cheerleaders on the opposite end of the gym. This time, he found her. She sat on the bottom bleacher, and even from this distance, he could see she felt like shit. Her face was pale and light shadows colored the space beneath her eyes. As if she could feel him looking at her, she lifted her chin, and her eyes stumbled upon his. They caught for just a moment, a moment that seemed to freeze and stretch on forever as he let himself be captured by that bright green. But then he looked away quickly—this was not the place to indulge in his need to study her—but not before he caught the very small upward pull of her lips. And not before his own mouth mimicked a tiny grin back.

His father gave him an annoyed glare when he returned to his seat, but Jace didn't have to put up with it for long, because the superintendent of the district stepped up to the podium soon after Jace sat next to Sebastian.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," he started, and Sebastian quietly mimicked the man's odd accent and the way he carried his big, round belly. Jace stifled a laugh and kicked Sebastian. "It is my pleasure to welcome you to the first ever joint pep rally for the . . ."

And that's when Jace tuned him out. Honestly, who gave a shit about camaraderie or whatever the hell else the superintendent was carrying on and on about? He certainly didn't. All he wanted to do was play the game and then hopefully, _hopefully_, finally be able to see Clary for real. He was still a little pissed that she continued to treat him like he wasn't involved, but more than anything, he just wanted to make sure she really was okay. And, well, he really kind of wanted to kiss her again.

And then the whole gym went dark.

"What the hell?" he whispered to Sebastian.

"Cheerleaders, dude," Sebastian said, and just as he did, the beat of some song started over the speakers.

Jace sat forward in his chair, squinting through the dark to try and see, when suddenly, dozens of lights turned on, their beams stretching to the sky and making circles of red and blue on the ceiling. He'd never seen a light that could do that before, it was actually sort of cool. As the music picked up the lights started to move, and that's when he followed the beams down and saw that each light was held by a cheerleader, either one from Northwest or one from Southeast. They were lined up, mixed together and moving across the floor, dancing, singing the lyrics to the song (he could only tell because he could see their lips moving), and making shapes and pictures on the ceiling with their lights.

They moved to the center of the gym, the lights on the ceiling growing closer and closer together until they looked like one big blob of red and blue lights. Then, they broke apart and the lights shot across the sky in all directions like shooting stars. He had his eyes glued to the ceiling, so it took an elbow from Sebastian before he realized the lights were now in a line, stretching the length of the gym and settling into the space above the players' heads. Jace looked down and saw the cheerleaders lined up in front of him. No, not just cheerleaders, _his_ cheerleader.

Clary tilted her light down from the ceiling, and suddenly, it was on him, like a spotlight. He blinked against the light at first, and then he realized all the players were illuminated by their own cheerleader. And not only that, but before each player was a cheerleader from the _other_ team.

The crowd behind them were cheering and singing the song lyrics. The sound was almost deafening, but all Jace could see was her. Finally, she smiled and tweaked her finger at him.

_Come here._

He barely registered Sebastian whooping and jumping to his feet beside him, as Jace slowly stood. Clary reached out and took his hand, dragging him into a mass of football players and cheerleaders that were congregated in the center of the gym floor. It wasn't until Clary stopped that he realized what they were doing. They had maneuvered all of the players into some sort of formation. He had no idea what it was, then Clary shoved her light into his hands and said, "Look up!" And when he did, he saw it immediately. The sun. They were positioned in the shape of the sun. The players formed the points, and a moving group of cheerleaders formed the center.

Clary stood right in front of him, her back to the crowd, and drew out another light from her waistband. With a small smirk, she started to circle him, just as the other girls were doing to their own players. When she was behind him, he felt her body brush against his, just barely, but enough to set him on fire. As she made her way back in front of him, Clary took his hand again, stretched it up above her head, and twirled beneath it, as if they were dancing. But Jace wasn't moving. He was just standing there, like all the other guys, stunned, and thinking he wouldn't mind dancing with her for real.

Clary circled him several more times, more twirls, more brushes, and then, as the music came to a close she leaned in and whispered, "Catch me."

Jace didn't have a chance to think before her arms were around his neck and she was leaping into him. He caught her easily, her body fitting snugly against him. And then, without warning, in front of the entire town, in front of his father and hers, she squeezed him around the neck and planted a kiss to his cheek. His entire body tightened and his fingers dug into her back and thigh.

"It's okay. It's part of the routine," she whispered, but her mouth lingered against his face a second more than he figured it was supposed to. "You can put me down now."

He turned toward her, her mouth still so close he could feel it brush across his face. She didn't move, didn't even breath as far as Jace could feel. His fingers curled into her, and the last thing he wanted was to put her down, but he knew he had to. He knew he had to now.

Slowly, he lowered her to the ground, noticing the way the other cheerleaders were jumping out of their player's arms and hooting and hollering with the crowd. And the way Clary still clung to him as if she didn't want to be let down either. The lights in the gym were still off, only the beams from the lights each player and cheerleader held illuminated anything.

As Clary's feet hit the floor, Jace kept his arms around her and said, "Shut off your light," at the same moment he switched off his.

She did, and for just that moment, just that miniscule second in time, they were alone in a gymnasium full of people. And he was holding her. And she was letting him. Jace closed his eyes and let his lips trace the line of her jaw as he said, "Meet me in the visitor's locker room in ten."

He felt her hand slip up his arm, softly, purposefully, and the faint nod of her head when she answered, "Okay."

.o.O.o.

Goosebumps spread over Clary's arms the moment she stepped into the quiet locker room. Why was it always so cold in there? She looked around, but saw no sign of Jace. Rubbing her arms to warm her skin, she started forward, passing several rows of blue lockers until she came to the back of the room near the outer exit. There she found him, pacing back and forth, his jersey stripped from his body and flung over a nearby bench. He was wearing an untucked white button up shirt and a maroon tie, which had been undone and was now just draped around his neck. Clary swallowed hard, because even as disheveled as he was, with his hand thrust into his hair, his clothing half undone and his eyes to the ground, he still looked beautiful.

She cleared her throat, and he looked up. The way his eyes focused on her made her breath catch. He'd never looked at her like that before. Their gold hue was so dark, so liquid, like golden lava. Heat spread over her chest and up her cheeks. She took a step forward, but he held out a hand and shook his head quickly.

She stopped, her stomach flipping over several times. "What's wrong?" she asked, finally noticing how stiff he seemed. He was agitated. Really agitated.

"Nothing, I—I'm just a little—" He blew out a slow breath and focused on the wall behind her. "It's been almost a week since I've seen you, and I've done nothing in the last six days but think about that last time. And I just had you in my arms, and I—" he finally looked at her again, "I just want to kiss you so much I feel like I'm going to explode."

Clary smiled. "Then why don't you?"

Jace closed his eyes and tugged at his hair. "We'll get to that, but first I need to ask you something."

"Okay. What do you want to ask me?"

He opened his eyes once more and trained them on hers. They'd lightened some. "Do you trust me?"

Well, she hadn't expected that. "What?"

"Do you trust me?"

"Of—of course. I told you that already."

"Then why do you lie to me?"

Clary felt as if someone had just thrown a sack of potatoes into her gut. "I—I haven't. What are you talking about?"

He stared at her for a moment and then said, "How are you feeling?"

She blinked in confusion. "Wha—Fine. I feel fine."

Jace shook his head. "That," he said. "That's what I'm talking about. Why do you _do_ that?"

Clary's mouth dropped open. She honestly didn't know what to say. But she really didn't have to say anything, because he was still talking.

"When I ask how you are, it isn't because I think I should. I ask because I really want to know. I get that maybe you're embarrassed to tell me some stuff. I _get_ it, okay? But . . . but you could at least say: 'You know what, Jace? I feel like shit. Every day. Every day I feel like shit.' And then at least I feel like you trust me enough to let me in a little. I just—I don't know. I hate hearing from Isabelle that you're still so God-damned sick and here I've been walking around thinking you were feeling at least somewhat better. I feel like an asshole."

"I'm sorry," Clary said. And she was. She didn't know he felt that way. "You're not an asshole, okay? I just . . . I know how guilty you still feel about everything, and I just don't want to keep piling that on. It's not your fault I feel so crappy."

He took a couple of steps toward her, and she felt her heart jump. "I _am_ guilty, Clary. And it_ is_ my fault you feel the way you do—at least partially." And then he was in front of her, his hand reaching out for her face. "And I really need you to let me feel that guilt, that responsibility."

She reached up and took his hand away from her face and held it in hers. "But I don't want you beating yourself up over that anymore. It's over. We did that together. We did this together."

"You're right. But now you're trying to do this part alone. Let me play my part. Let me feel what I need to feel." He touched his forehead to hers. "Let me in."

She closed her eyes and let herself soak in the heat of his skin against hers for a moment, before she pulled back and tilted her head up to meet his eyes. "Jace," she said. "I feel like shit. Every day. Every day I feel like shit."

He smiled a little. "Thank you."

"But," she said. "I'm not lying when I tell you I'm fine."

His brows furrowed.

"Every day I'm so aware of just how pregnant I am. Before I even get up in the morning I stuff my face with Saltines I keep hidden in my nightstand, so I can manage to get up without puking. Some days I still do anyway. And even though I'm nauseous almost all the time, I'm hungry too. And even though I puke up half of what I eat, none of my clothes fit. I know why, but somehow, in my mind it still doesn't make sense. And everywhere I go, I feel like I'm the only person there, like I am so alone in this world and with this secret. But," she paused, "there are times when I don't feel any of that. Do you know when that is?"

Jace shook his head.

"When I get that text that asks me how I am. When I hear your voice ask me the same thing. When I'm standing here with you and you're asking me again." A piece of his hair fell in front of his eyes, and Clary reached up to brush it away, letting her fingers linger at his temple before trailing down his face and neck, and finally wrapping themselves around the tie draped over his shoulder. "So when I tell you I'm fine, I'm not lying. You make me fine, because of all the people in my life, in my world, you're the only one who truly lives in this secret with me. Isabelle tries, but really, it's only you."

Jace moved again, and this time Clary unconsciously moved with him until her back pressed against the cool metal lockers behind her. He was so close, mere centimeters away.

"So," he said, "what you're saying is that we need to spend more time together? Because I make you fine and all."

"It wouldn't be a bad idea." She reached up and twisted her other hand in the other side of his tie. Her heart knocked against her ribs.

"Would it be a bad idea if I kissed you now?"

She shook her head and tightened her grip on his tie. "I'd say definitely no."

And this time when he kissed her, it was not careful or slow. His hands curled around her hips and pressed her harder into the lockers, his entire body lining up with hers: his lips to her lips, his chest to her chest, his hips to her hips, his thighs to her thighs. It felt so foreign but so familiar, like a dream you knew you'd had but had forgotten all the details to. And it felt so good she wanted to die. She pulled hard against his tie, and if she'd been thinking, she may have worried it would have hurt him. But she wasn't thinking. She wasn't doing anything but feeling and tasting and, God, burning. She was burning.

Jace's hands trailed up her sides until he was holding her face, holding it so hard against his there was no way she could have pulled away, even if she wanted to. And she definitely,_ definitely_, didn't want to. He kissed her like he needed her to live. Like she was all the nourishment and air and life he would ever need.

There was no space between them, not even enough for air to escape through, and yet she wasn't close enough. She wanted to wrap herself around him, to crawl inside him. Fire exploded on her face, her chest, her stomach, her thighs, and the only relief from any of it was him. Touching him, kissing him. And so she did. Her lips continued to move and her fingers explored, finally letting go of the tie and spreading across his chest, slipping down his sides and moving around to his back. She fisted the material of his shirt and pulled him so hard into her they almost fell.

Jace's hands slammed against the lockers to either side of her as he caught them and his mouth curled into a smile against hers. God, she loved kissing him while he smiled.

"Sorry," she said against his mouth, her lips still working, sucking his, biting his, "I just . . . can't . . . I can't . . ." Her hands pulled at him more: the collar of his shirt, his neck, his hair. "I . . . just . . . can't . . ."

"You can't what?" His voice was all breath. Hot, delicious breath.

"I don't know," Clary said, and wrapped her arms around his neck, kissing him until it hurt. She couldn't understand what she was feeling, so hot, so . . . much. She'd never felt like this before. Like she couldn't breathe unless she was kissing him, like she couldn't hold him tight enough, like she was actually on fire. And by the way he was gripping her, how his arms held her just as much imprisoned as hers did him, she was willing to bet he felt the same. She didn't want to stop, couldn't stop, couldn't—

A loud bang startled them both and they broke apart, their chests heaving as they fought to catch their breath.

But it was too late. Too late for the two sets of large, dark eyes not to see them. One set hidden behind a familiar pair of spectacles, and the other blazing in the face of her very pissed off brother.

"I really don't think this is what they meant by creating more unity between the teams," Simon said, his eyes wide beneath his glasses and disheveled hair. In his arms, he held a box of sports equipment. Another lay at Jonathan's feet.

Jace bent down, and Clary could feel his breath on the back of her neck. It made her shiver. "We're really going to have to find a more private place to do this next time."

Clary didn't have a chance to answer, because the next thing she knew, Jonathan shouted "Get your hands off my sister, you bastard!" and threw himself across the space between them, grabbing Jace by the front of his shirt and slamming him into the lockers behind them.

* * *

><p>Uh oh . . .<p>

Until next time, XOXO ~ddpjclaf


	13. Is That What I Am?

******The character names of The Mortal Instruments are owned by Cassandra Clare. The original content, ideas and intellectual property of this story are owned by ddpjclaf, 2011. Please do not copy, reproduce, or translate without express written permission.******

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Thirteen "Is That What I Am?"<strong>

***WARNING* For those of you who prefer some notice, the heat index on this chapter gets pretty warm at the end. This is a bit different from any citrusy scenes you may be used to from me because, as with all of this fic, I'm being a bit more realistic and literal. I am still not overly descriptive, nor do I use vulgar terms. but I think you should know that this does ring truer to real life, including awkwardness and frank discussion.**

Thank you LLWB for being awesome and freaking out over my little imaginary world/characters.

_Chapter songs:_

_**Comedown – Bush_

_**Sexy and I Know It – LMFAO (Trust me…)_

_**You Could Be Happy – Snow Patrol _

_**Superman – Five for Fighting_

_**Lie in the Sound – Trespassers William_

* * *

><p>Even though Jace expected the impact, he hadn't prepared himself for how much it was actually going to hurt. It wasn't the smashing of his shoulder blades into the cool metal behind him, or even the apparent hit to the mouth—evidenced by the coppery tinge of blood on his tongue—but the excruciating pain from where Jonathan's knuckles dug into Jace's already bruised chest. He could feel it pulsing through him like another heartbeat—an agonizingly unbearable heartbeat—and did his best not to grimace or give any other indication to his discomfort. There was no way he'd give Jonathan Morgenstern the satisfaction.<p>

Jonathan pulled against Jace's shirt and shoved him back against the lockers again, his hand slamming into the center of his chest once more. "What the hell are you doing with my sister?" he shouted into Jace's face, his eyes wide and spit flying from his mouth.

Jace wanted to respond with something asshole-ish and witty, but he couldn't breathe, let alone talk. God-damn Kaelie. Now he was going to look like a complete dick, panting and trying not to pass out while Jonathan crushed his chest further.

"Answer me, dickhead!"

"Jonathan," Clary said, her voice wavering. "Stop. Just—stop, so we can talk."

"I don't want to talk to you," Jonathan snarled. "I want to talk to him." His eyes narrowed into thin, black slits. "What the _hell_ do you think you're doing with my sister?"

Jace finally drew in a breath and curled his fist at his side, but before he had a chance to speak, his eyes caught Clary's. They were so big and scared that as much as he wanted to kick the living shit out of Morgenstern, he knew he couldn't. Not in front of her. Damn it all to hell. His fist loosened and he glared back at Jonathan.

"You better talk, asshole, or I'll make you." Jonathan's grip on Jace's shirt tightened, and Jace could feel his knuckles digging in again.

"Then go for it," Jace said, readying himself to be hit. "I don't have to tell you shit."

"Do you think this is part of the game? That she's going to be a pawn in this little pissing match? You and your asshole dad don't get to hurt her! Do you hear me? I won't let you pull her into this!"

"Jonathan!" Clary called out again. "It's not like that, okay? He's—"

"Jesus Christ, Clary!" Jonathan turned his head to look at his sister. "Are you stupid? Just shut the hell up, okay? You don't know what you're talking about—"

"Hey!" That's what it took to really piss Jace off. Not the pain to his chest, not being ripped away from Clary, but hearing Jonathan talk to her that way. "Don't tell her to shut up or call her stupid, asshat."

Jonathan turned back to Jace, slowly. "Are you telling me how to talk to my sister?"

"No," Jace reached up and grabbed Jonathan's hands, ripping them away from his chest, "I'm telling you how not to talk to my girl."

The widening of Jonathan's eyes and the choked gasp that came from Clary made Jace very aware of what he'd just said. He hadn't even meant to, it'd just slipped out. But he wasn't taking it back and he wasn't backing down. She may not have realized it, but that was what she'd become to him, his. And he would be damned if he let anyone talk to her like that in front of him.

"What did you just call her?" Jonathan's voice was low, calm—too calm—and Jace knew he was walking a very thin line, but he didn't care.

Jace stepped away from the lockers, closer to Jonathan, his body stiff and ready for whatever Clary's brother was about to dole out. "I think you heard me."

"Take it back."

"No."

Jonathan took in a breath, his shoulders rising with the effort and his nostrils flaring. "I mean it. Take it back. Right. Now."

"Not a chance."

"I'm going to kill you, Wayland!"

Jace was right in Jonathan's face, their noses nearly touching, as he spread his arms wide. "Then what are you waiting for, asshole?" God, Jace wanted Jonathan to hit him, wanted it so much he could feel it in every tense muscle and tendon. He wanted a reason to fight this bastard.

"Jace, no—" Clary said, but it was too late.

Jonathan let out a growl of fury and leapt forward once again, shoving Jace, his back and head hitting the lockers with a loud clang. They were a tangle of arms and legs furiously battling with one another. Jace heard a scramble of activity around him, but all he was aware of was Jonathan pulling back to hit him.

_Finally!_

But before Jonathan had a chance to swing, Clary lunged forward to grab her brother's arm. "Jonathan, stop!"

There was no time for Jace to stop it, no time for him to even say anything in warning, but as soon as Clary touched her brother, Jonathan jerked back as if burned and knocked his sister to the ground. She cupped her hand over her cheek.

Jace didn't think. He brought both hands up and shoved as hard as he could against Jonathan's chest. Jonathan stumbled back, tripping over the bench behind them and sprawling out on the concrete floor.

Without a second glance at Jonathan, Jace turned his back and knelt beside Clary, who was sitting few feet away on the ground. He removed her hand from her face. A light pink stain bloomed over her left cheekbone. Jace clenched his jaw and ran his fingers over the spot.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

She looked up, her eyes wide but angered. "Don't fight with my brother, Jace."

It was all she said. She didn't ask if he was all right, didn't answer his inquiry as to whether or not she was. All she wanted was for this not to happen, for him and Jonathan not to fight each other. Jace's stomach curled into a knot. What was he supposed to do? Let Jonathan kick the shit out of him? Let him knock his sister over with no recourse? Because he was pretty sure Jonathan Morgenstern wasn't backing down. That wasn't how Jace Wayland worked. He opened his mouth to protest, to tell her that he couldn't possibly just walk away, but Jonathan spoke before he got a chance.

"I swear to all that is holy I will break your arm if you don't stop touching my sister!" Jonathan struggled to untangle his legs from the bench and right himself.

"Back off, Morgenstern, I'm just seeing if she's okay after you hit her in the face!" Jace glared at Jonathan.

Jonathan hesitated and looked at his sister. "I didn't mean to hit you, Clare-bear, but you shouldn't have gotten in the way. This is between me and him."

"No," she narrowed her eyes, "this is between _me_ and him. It has nothing to do with you."

"Clary, you can't be serious!" Jonathan cried. "Please tell me you don't think this is real? Please tell me you don't believe he actually likes you? He's _using_ you, baby girl."

Jace tensed and made to stand. Using her? Asshole. He'd show him who was using who— But Clary closed her hand over his forearm, digging her fingers into his flesh and holding him back—just barely.

"Jonathan," she said, "could you please just go? Outside. Anywhere. Please. I just . . . I need a minute and then we can talk about it, okay?"

"No way! I'm not leaving you alone with him!"

"What the hell, Morgenstern? What do you think I'm going to do? Murder her here in the locker room?"

Jonathan eyed Jace. "No, I'm pretty sure you'd damage her in other ways."

Jace let out a frustrated noise and turned to Clary. "Please just let me hit him once. Just once. I swear I won't break anything."

The look Clary gave him could have melted ice off the polar ice caps. Then she turned it on Jonathan, which made Jace a little bit smug. "Simon," she said, and Jace, having momentarily forgotten the scrawny, geeky boy that had come in with Jonathan, glanced to where the boy stood, still holding the box, still studying them all with a strange, judgmental look on his face. "Could you forget that you hate me for five seconds and get my brother out of here before he causes more of a scene?"

"You mean kind of like the scene you two were just causing before we came in here?" Simon said.

Clary closed her eyes and let out a slow breath, as if she had expected the little prick to act that way. Jace now wanted to hit _him_ too. "No, I was thinking more about a scene involving our fathers, which would be much more annoying and ugly." She twisted to look at the boy, her voice lowering and turning slightly desperate. "Please."

Simon's stone facade broke just a little and he sighed, and then nodded.

"I don't need a damn babysitter, Clary, I'm nineteen-years-old," Jonathan said.

"Yeah, well, you're acting about five." Jace snorted and Clary set her glare back on him. "Both of you."

"But Clare-bear—"

Clary held her hand up. "Don't Clare-bear me, Jonathan. Just . . . go. Please. I just . . . I need a second with Jace, then we'll talk."

The skinny boy, Simon, walked over to Jonathan. "Come on, man." He tried to grab Jonathan's arm, but Jonathan pulled it back and pointed at Jace.

"We're not done, Wayland."

"We're never done, Morgenstern."

Finally, Simon directed the still complaining Jonathan to the back door, where he shoved it open with angry force and disappeared into the dark. It only took a second for Jace to feel Clary's heated gaze on his cheek. Taking in a breath, he turned toward her.

"Okay, I'm just going to say I'm sorry now, before you bitch me out and tell me that whatever was going on is now officially _not_ going on anymore. But I don't know what you expect me to do when he grabs me and throws me around. I'm a guy, Clary. Guys just don't stand for that shit. You know? And—why . . . why are you looking at me like that?"

She was studying him closely, but not with the disappointment and anger he'd expected, but more with . . . something else.

"Do I have something on my face?" he asked, meaning it partially as a joke.

"Yes," she said, quietly, and touched the corner of his mouth, where he was sure there was probably some dried blood. It hurt, though not badly. "But that's not . . ." And then she looked down at the floor.

"Then what?" He grabbed her hand. "What? Shit. I screwed it up, didn't I? I just screwed it all up—"

"You called me your girl." Her gaze rose slowly, so she was looking at him from under her lashes, almost uncertainly. Shyly. So unlike her.

"I . . ." He swallowed.

"Is that what I am?" she asked, still quiet, almost whispering. "Am I your girl, Jace?"

He stared at her, not knowing how to answer that. Was she? Only she knew the correct response. "I don't know, Clary," he said. "Are you?"

Clary hesitated and looked toward the door, almost like she couldn't wait to get out of there.

Jace sighed. "Never mind," he said, and started to rise. "You should go. Your brother will probably burst back in here and try to kick my shit again if you don't."

She grabbed his arm. "Jace?"

This time it was he who hesitated.

"How—how would you feel if I—if I were, you know, that?"

"You know how I'd feel. How I already feel. This ball has been in your court for a long time now."

She drew her bottom lip between her teeth and bit lightly. "Well, I—"

The bang of a door echoed through the room, and Sebastian's voice—singing some of the most ridiculous lyrics Jace had ever heard—came with it.

"_When I walk in the spot, (yeah) this is what I see (okaay). Everybody stops and they staring at me. I got a passion in my pants and I ain't afraid to show it . . . _Hey! Sunshine? Are you and Shortcake still macking back there or what?"

"Jesus." Jace lowered his forehead to his hand and closed his eyes. "My best friend is such an asshole."

Sebastian continued to sing. _"(Ahhh) Girl, lookit dat body. (Ahhh) Girl lookit dat body. (Ahhh) Girl, lookit dat body. I—I—I—I work out."_

Clary laughed quietly and cupped her hand under Jace's chin, gently pulling his face up to meet hers. "Aww, come on," she said, "he's sexy and he knows it."

"That's not funny at all," he said, but couldn't help the small grin fighting its way onto his face. "There's nothing sexy about him."

"_Wiggle wiggle wiggle wiggle wiggle yeah."_

Jace raised his brow as if to say "See?", and Clary frowned. "Well, as long as he doesn't actually wiggle anything for you."

Jace groaned and thought maybe he'd puke at the thought. He did not want to imagine Sebastian wiggling anything, ever. After a moment, he glanced up, and Clary was still looking at him with that same expression.

"I really am sorry. I know I promised I'd try not to be a dick to your brother, but I—"

"Jace," she said, "will you please _stop_ apologizing?"

He closed his mouth and stared up at her in frustration. How the hell was he supposed to make it better if he couldn't apologize for being an ass?

Clary smiled then looked over at the door leading to where Jonathan exited. "I think I better go before my brother charges back in here, or someone else catches us."

Jace sighed, thinking that idea sucked balls. "Yeah, all right."

She turned back to him, paused, then leaned in and kissed him lightly, almost so light he could barely feel it, on the corner of his mouth where she'd wiped the blood away earlier. "Will I see you later?"

Jace slipped his hand around the back of her neck and pulled her closer, kissing her again, only opening and tasting her a little. He wanted more. So much more. But this would have to do for now. "You'd better. I've waited a whole week for you and this wasn't nearly enough. Plus," he dropped another peck to the corner of her mouth, "we were interrupted right when it was getting good."

"Insatiable much?" She grinned against him.

"You have no idea." He wrapped his arms around her waist and drew her in closer, pressing his mouth harder to hers.

She laughed and pushed against his shoulders. "You have to let me go."

Jace groaned and loosened his hold, but didn't let go all together. When Clary pulled back, she brushed her thumb over his lip, like maybe she wanted to rub the taste of her in so he wouldn't forget her. She needn't worry. He wouldn't.

"Good luck tonight," she said, as she stood and moved toward the door. When she wrapped her hand around the handle, she looked back at him and said, "Oh, and Jace?"

"Yeah?"

She smiled again, "I am, by the way," and disappeared after her brother into the dark.

It only took Jace a second to understand what she was saying. He grinned and said to himself, "Yeah, I thought so."

.o.O.o.

Clary leaned back against the heavy, metal door and closed her eyes. The scent of popcorn and hotdogs drifted through the wind from the concession stand. Luckily, her stomach seemed to have calmed somewhat. But then it flipped again when she thought about what she'd just said.

His girl.

Oh God, did she just say she was his girl? Two weeks ago she'd said she just wanted to be friends. How did she go from that to being "Jace Wayland's girl" in such a short amount of time? It was too fast, right? Right? It had to be. But it didn't feel too fast; it felt too slow. Way too slow.

The things she'd been feeling in there, the way she couldn't get enough of his hands and mouth on her, the way she wanted to crawl up his body and plaster herself to him, God, what _was_ that? She'd never been like that with anyone before. Sure, she enjoyed kissing and all that. But that . . . that was more than just liking the way he kissed.

A shiver raced up her spine as she remembered how he felt against her, so strong, so solid, so . . . just SO. And when he kissed her, he didn't just kiss her, he consumed her, devoured her. Almost like his sole purpose on this earth was to kiss her and only her.

A shuffle in the grass nearby caused her eyes to fly open. Simon stood several feet away, his hands shoved in his pockets and his shoulders hunched. A pang cinched in her chest. It had been so long since she'd been alone with him. As crappy as things had been between them since the breakup, she still missed him. Missed the friendship they'd had before they made the mistake of trying to be more.

"Hey," she said.

Simon reached up and ran a hand around to the back of his neck. "Jonathan's waiting for you over there." He tilted his head toward the maintenance shed near the parking lot. "I tried to calm him, but, well, you know how he gets."

"Thanks. But you didn't have to wait—"

"Yeah, I did." Simon finally looked up and caught her eyes. "I owed you."

Clary frowned. "For what?"

"For acting like such a jerk after we broke up."

Clary stayed silent, stunned. She hadn't expected him to speak to her again, let alone kind of sort of admit to being wrong about the way he'd handled things.

He shook his head and looked away. "I let myself think you were the one in the wrong. That you were to blame for all of it. That you just didn't give us a chance, and if you had you'd have seen what I saw. The potential that was there if we just worked on it some more." He paused. "But then I saw you in there—"

"Simon, you don't—"

"You never kissed me like that, Clary. Not once. And I knew it was wrong, that we were wrong, but I just . . . I wanted it so much that I ignored all the signs. I let myself believe that you loved me, even when deep down I knew you didn't."

"That's not true. I did love you; I _do_ love you, still."

Simon smiled, but it was small, sad. "Maybe. But not like that." He lifted his chin to the locker room door behind Clary. "You never loved me like that."

Clary's heart skipped. "I don't . . . I—I don't know him well enough to love him."

Simon shook his head. "That might be true, but how well you know someone doesn't really affect how you feel about them. I think we both know that."

"I never wanted to hurt you, Simon." Clary took a few steps toward him. "If I could go back, I wouldn't—"

"—change a thing," he finished for her. "I wouldn't change anything. A smarter person might, but I think . . . I think I needed to know. What we could be. What we couldn't. Now I know."

"I'm sorry," Clary whispered.

"Me too," Simon said.

"I miss you, you know?"

"Yeah." He shuffled from one foot to the other, something Clary hadn't ever seen him do because of her. It made her sad to know how uncomfortable he was in her presence. "But I'm still here. I've always been here. I just needed to sort through the shattered remains of my fragile male ego for awhile."

"So, does that mean . . ."

"It means I'm a stupid jerk, but, if you want me, I'm still your friend. I'll always be your friend." He scratched at his head. "And that's what sucks the most about all of this. You've been my friend for so long, and now it's like we're strangers. I don't know what's going on with you, what's happening in your life. I mean," he flopped his hand toward the door, "Jace Wayland? Really?"

Clary shook her head and looked at the ground. "Yeah, well, that's a very long, very complicated story that I'm about a thousand percent sure you don't want to hear." When she raised her head, he was looking at her like the old Simon used to look at her. Not with bitterness or anger, but just like he cared. "And you're not just my friend, Si. You're my best friend."

"Not really anymore," he said. "But we can work on that."

She closed the distance left between them and flung her arms around his neck, pulling him in and squeezing him hard. "You don't know how happy I am to hear you say that. I really need my best friend right now." Out of the corner of her eye, she spied Jonathan's blond head bob out from behind the shed. She sighed. "But, unfortunately, I have to go deal with my stupid brother." Stepping back and dropping her arms, she grimaced.

Simon glanced over his shoulder then back at her. "You want me to come with you?"

"No. I think I need to do this on my own. But," she placed her hand on his arm, "I'll call you soon. We have a lot to talk about, I think."

"I think that's an understatement."

Clary stretched up on tip-toes and kissed his cheek just like she always used to do. He offered her a small smile in response, and she patted his arm before starting toward where her brother waited. The wind had picked up and was laced with the chill of impending winter—or maybe it was the frigid blast of anger coming from her brother, Clary couldn't be sure. It didn't take her long to reach the place where he waited, his eyes narrowed into slits. She stopped a few feet in front of him, feeling the waves of frustration roll over him.

Clary crossed her arms over her chest. "So, let me have it." There was no use dancing around the issue, and she had a game to get to.

"Let you have what?"

Oh, so he was going to play it that way. All right.

"Okay, cool," she said, and turned to go back to the field. "I guess I'll just go get ready for the game then—"

"Wait!" Jonathan called.

Clary froze, turning back slowly and retaining her earlier stance. Every muscle in her body pulled taut, waiting, readying.

Jonathan let out a slow breath and squinted into the light that shined above them. "Just tell me one thing," he said, and Clary stiffened further, fearing what he might want to know. "Is this whole thing for real, or are you just doing it to screw with me and dad?"

"Why would I want to screw with you?"

"I don't know!" Jonathan threw his hands in the air. "But it makes a whole hell of a lot more sense than you and Wayland! Together." He shuddered in disgust. "God."

Clary felt her anger spike. "Why does that make more sense? Because there's no way he could like me?"

"Yes! He couldn't and he doesn't. Don't you understand that this is just a huge joke, a game to catch dad off guard? How could you be so stupid?"

"Okay, first of all," Clary stepped closer to her brother, "that's the second time tonight that you've called me stupid. I'm _not_ stupid, Jonathan, and I think you know that. Secondly, why is it so hard for you to believe that Jace and I might actually just like each other? For your information, when we met we didn't even know who the other one was. We just . . . we clicked." Okay, she guessed that was a safe enough word for how they'd been when they met.

"You can't honestly believe that he didn't know who you were."

"Yeah, I do, because I saw his face when he found out. He was shocked, just like I was. You know, for as smart as you are, Jonathan, you sure can be stupid."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" he shouted. "I wasn't the one sucking face with that nasty—"

"Is this really how you want to be?" Clary interrupted. "Adopting prejudices from our dad that you don't even know anything about? So, he hates Michael Wayland. Do you even know why?" Jonathan started to answer, but Clary cut him off. "_Besides_ football."

Jonathan's mouth snapped closed. No, he didn't know, just like she didn't.

"I didn't think so," she said. "None of us know what the deal is with them. They were football rivals in school. Okay. You and Jace were rivals when you were in school. That I get. I get the whole sports thing—okay, maybe not entirely, but I know how competitive you get, so I understand that. But this . . . this . . . stupid feud . . . I just—I can't wrap my head around it. It doesn't have anything to do with us—any of us: you, me, Jace." She looked up and met her brother's frustrated eyes. The patter of drums started in the background, letting Clary know she was already running late. "And like I told you before, I don't want any part of it, Jonathan. Jace is not a Wayland to me, he's just a boy. A boy I like and who likes me. And I guess if you don't like that, oh well, you're going to have to just deal with it." The horns joined in with the drums, Southeast's school song starting and growing louder. "But, look, I can't do this with you right now. I'm gonna be late." She started to back away.

"Dad will never let you see him, Clary. You have to know that."

Angry tears stung in her eyes, but she kept moving away. Away from her brother, away from the one person in her family she'd thought she might have a chance of getting support from. "Yeah, well, he'll only know if you tell him. And if you do then I guess I'll know where I stand in this whole stupid rivalry idiocy with you too, won't I?" And then she spun on her heel and ran the rest of the way to the field, fighting the urge to turn around. Because as mad as he made her, she still wished he could just be her big brother, that he could still be the one to tell her everything would be all right and that no matter what happened, with her parents, with Jace, with the pregnancy, that she would always still have him. In the past, she'd always been so sure of that.

She needed something she could be sure of.

And right then, she wasn't sure of anything.

.o.O.o.

Jace looked up from the huddle at the game clock. Eight minutes and forty-two seconds left in the fourth with only a two point lead. Jesus, this had to be the longest game in history. He lowered his head and took in a breath, trying not to wince when the sharp stab of his pads pressing against his bruised sternum shot through him. They had been bothering him all week, pushing just right against the spot on his chest where Kaelie had tried to embed the weight bar last weekend. But the almost fight with Jonathan had made it that much worse. Damn it. He wished he could have clocked that asshole at least once to make it worth it.

"You okay, man?" Sebastian asked, as he studied Jace with a concerned frown.

"Yeah. Why wouldn't I be?"

"I dunno. But you're all bent over like that dude who lived in that old church."

Jace raised a brow.

"You know, that ugly old fart that walked with that weird limp and leg shuffle thing and cleaned bells or something."

"The hunchback of Notre Dame?"

"Yeah, him."

Jace blinked a couple of times then just decided to leave it. He had a game to win and didn't have time to ponder the stupid shit that came out of Sebastian's mouth. His teammates gathered around him and listened as he called the play—another long pass that would hopefully get them a touchdown and close out the game. When the huddle broke, Jace straightened back up, unable to stop himself from grimacing as the pain stabbed him again. His eyes drifted to the sidelines where his father stood, studying him intensely. The look on his face was not one Jace liked to see. His father was worried, not about Jace or even so much about the game, but worried that his son would lose it for him.

He was trying not to, trying to work past the pain and play as well as he always did, but he was struggling. And he was certain it was noticeable. Sebastian had been asking him all night if he was okay—the hunchback mention wasn't the first time. But the worst was that his dad noticed.

"What's going on with you tonight?" his father had asked the last time Jace was on the sidelines. "You've thrown it away twice already. That's unacceptable."

"Nothing," Jace answered. But the truth was, both times he'd seen the linemen rushing straight for him, and he couldn't bear the thought of being pummeled like that. Yes, tonight he was playing like a pansy ass. But, damn it, it hurt!

"Then shape up or I'll pull you out."

Jace knew it was an empty threat. Their second string quarterback hadn't seen a moment of playing time all year and was in no way prepared to play Southeast. But Jace answered the way he was expected to anyway, "Yes, sir."

On his way back out to the field, Jace let himself find Clary on the other side. She was facing the crowd, working with her squad to get the spectators riled up. Not that they needed it, they'd been screaming the entire game already. But Jace didn't care that she was "working for the enemy". He liked looking at her doing her thing, because regardless of who she cheered for, at the end of the day, she was his. It may have been pig-headed or disgusting, but he liked knowing that. Knowing that no matter what happened in this game, no matter who won or who lost, that wouldn't change. She would still be his.

Jace didn't have that kind of assurance with his father. When he was small, things weren't like they were now. His father had wanted him with or without football. But since his mother died, things had changed. Michael didn't talk to him unless it was about football, didn't spend time with him unless it was during football. Maybe it was too painful for him, Jace didn't know, but that's just how it was now. But what he did know was that if he could win this game, Jace could make his father happy—even if only for that night.

He stepped up behind his center and took one more searching look across the field. Southeast's line was ready, crouched in position, fingers tensed in the grass below. Their line backers stood stiff and concentrated behind the defensive line, and the safety's played deep. Yeah, they knew what he was going to do, and they knew he was going to do it well. Jace bent down and cupped his hands behind his center, twisted his head to either side, calling out his cadence, and then the ball snapped. And then it hit his hands, the pebbled leather surface feeling like home against his palms. His feet pulled him back a few steps instinctively, and his eyes were all over the field, searching, probing, and locating his man. He didn't concentrate on the defensive players rushing toward him, he couldn't. His job, his focus, was to get that ball down the field.

Finally, his receiver broke away, and Jace drew back his arm—

The impact caught him right in the center of his chest. He inhaled one piercing, agonizing breath, and pain blossomed from the middle, branching outward like thorned vines wrapping around his ribs and stabbing his lungs. Everything inside of him froze, his heart, his thoughts, his breath, and there was nothing but the pain.

Jace's back hit the ground hard and he tried to breathe but couldn't draw in or release any air. His fingers pulled at the opening to his shoulder pads to loosen them, to do _something, anything,_ to stop the unbearable squeeze on his chest. It was then he realized he didn't have the ball. He didn't have it and the crowd was cheering as footsteps pounded away from him, and he was laying there in the middle of the field not breathing.

Lights exploded in front of his eyes as the throbbing ache in his chest spread further. He could hear himself gasping, but he couldn't stop his eyes from closing, couldn't stop the darkness from taking him over.

.o.O.o.

Clary watched him fall. She watched him fall and saw the ball roll out of his hand. And while the rest of her squad was jumping and cheering as their team picked up the fumble and ran all the way to the end zone, she watched him lay there. Jace never fumbled and he never laid there after being hit. But this time he did. He laid there. And he laid there and laid there and laid there.

She felt her heart stutter to a stop as the rest of the world went on around her. It seemed like minutes, hours, days before anyone noticed Jace wasn't getting up. When they did, several members of the coaching staff from his team rushed out onto the field, including his father. They crowded around his body, a couple at his legs and three at his head. One man, holding a bag of some sort, leaned over Jace and clapped his hands over his face a few times.

Clary held her breath, waiting. From the silence engulfing the stadium, it seemed everyone else was holding theirs too. After a few claps, Clary saw Jace's leg move, just a slight raising and lowering of one knee, and then he brought up his hand, gesturing to himself, pointing at his chest. Painful relief spread over her. The man with the bag lifted Jace's jersey and fiddled with the pads underneath, and then sat back sharply. He turned and gestured to the paramedics standing by on the sidelines, and they rushed onto the field pulling a stretcher.

"Oh, God," Clary said, and covered her mouth with her hand.

Isabelle was at her side in an instant, her hand grasping Clary's.

Clary watched as Jace shook his head and tried to sit up. His father was saying something to the man with the bag, his forehead creased and expression angry. But the man shook his head in return and placed a hand on Jace's shoulder, keeping him down on the ground. Coach Wayland stood and threw his clipboard as he walked back to the sideline, leaving his son and the other coaches in the middle of the field. The two paramedics arrived, but Jace shook his head again and sat up, pushing the man's hand away. A couple of the other coaches grabbed him under the arms and helped him to his feet. But even from this distance, Clary could see his steps were unsure and he held his body hunched over, as if he were in a great deal of pain.

When they made it to the sideline, the teams took their places on the field again, intent on finishing the game as if nothing had even happened. Clary's stomach rolled and burned with nausea. She was relieved that he'd walked off, but Jace would never willingly leave a game unless he physically couldn't play any longer. And for him to not be able to play, he must've been really hurt. She strained to see behind the line of players across the field, but she couldn't tell where they'd taken him. It was the cruelest torture to not know, and even worse to know that she couldn't even ask.

Isabelle nudged her shoulder. "Are you okay?"

Clary nodded, but didn't quite know if that was true.

"He's all right, Clary," Isabelle whispered. "He walked off the field. He's all right."

Clary nodded again, but the look on Isabelle's face told her she knew Clary wasn't quite sure. Isabelle screwed her lips to the side and held her finger up, then rushed over to the stands, gesturing at someone. A moment later, Simon came down and leaned over the rail as Isabelle stretched on tip-toes, cupped her hand around his ear and whispered something to him. Clary frowned. What was she doing? Izzy grabbed something from Simon and pointed toward the other side of the field.

Simon pulled back, his forehead creased, and then looked over at Clary and nodded. He made his way to the end of the bleachers and took off toward the concession stand. Isabelle returned and Clary pulled her in by the elbow.

"What did you do?"

Isabelle didn't say anything. She just smiled a smile that was way too innocent for her. Several minutes later, an out of breath Simon stood at the fence again and gestured to Clary. She frowned and slowly made her way over to him.

"What did she make you do?"

Simon didn't respond—and Clary thought maybe he couldn't seeing as he was breathing pretty hard. He reached out and slapped a game roster into her hand before turning back to the stands. Clary frowned and opened the folded paper. She groaned when she saw Isabelle's handwriting scrawled across the top:

Could you please let your girlfriend know you're not dead so she doesn't pass out? 'Kay thx, Iz.

And then under that, was an answer. Clary's cheeks burned.

Please pass this on to my girlfriend: I'm not dead, baby. So don't pass out. And do me a favor and turn those pretty green eyes up. ~Jace

Clary's breath quickened. Oh, God. Baby. He'd called her baby! If she were the swooning type of girl, she totally would have at that. And she hadn't missed that he'd called her his girlfriend. Granted, Izzy had called her that first, but he'd said it like it was fact, no quotation marks, nothing to indicate he was only using the phrase because Isabelle had. She carefully refolded the note, drew in a breath, and looked up. And there he was, across the field standing on the sideline, his jersey, pads, and helmet off, holding something large and white against his chest. He lifted his other hand in a small greeting. Clary shook her head, grinned, and waved the program slightly in front of her, letting him know she got it. He tipped his head forward once, then disappeared back behind the wall of Northwest players. Clary tucked the note into the waistband of her skirt and joined her squad once more.

Isabelle smirked between jumps and high kicks.

"I'm going to kill you," Clary said, rolling her eyes in embarrassment and joining in mid-cheer.

Isabelle grinned larger and answered, knowing exactly what Clary's words really meant, "You're welcome, chicken."

.o.O.o.

The ride home from the game was as silent as the locker room had been immediately afterward—if you didn't count the yelling coming from Jace's father's office. Part of Jace felt sorry for the medical aid that had deemed him unable to play the rest of the game due to the extensive bruising across his chest. But the other part was pissed to hell that he hadn't had a chance to turn the game around and win it. Now Valentine Morgenstern and the Southeast Knights were going to State, and he wasn't. His father wasn't.

If he were a better son, he'd have stuck around and rode home with his dad, but he just wasn't in the mood to talk about the game right then. His chest hurt like shit, and all he wanted to do was lie down and sulk for a good few days. Unfortunately, there was no place to go. If he went home he'd be sure to have to endure his father's tirade, but Sebastian was throwing another God-damn party (planned in advance, anticipating their win, but even though they lost Sebastian replied with: "The party must go on!") so Jace just had to choose the lesser of two evils.

Thankfully, Sebastian kept his mouth shut on the way to his house and didn't crack a single joke about Jonathan catching Jace and Clary making out in the locker room. Jace knew Sebastian had been holding it in all night, just waiting for the chance to throw it in Jace's face, but he hadn't said a thing. And Jace was glad. He honestly did not want to have to beat his best friend's ass tonight, but he'd make a go of it if necessary.

Sebastian turned down his street, which was already lined with vehicles waiting for the party to start. Jace sighed and climbed out of the car after Seb pulled into the driveway. It took some effort and he grimaced against the ache still radiating through his chest. On the sidelines, the paramedics had checked him out (since he'd refused to let them take him to the hospital) and they'd determined his sternum and the ribs on his left side were just badly bruised. Jace could have told them that. He'd sustained broken ribs before and knew what it felt like. As much as this hurt, it definitely didn't feel the same as that. But because the bruising was so bad and the pain from the hit had made him pass out like a sissy, the medics had refused to allow him any more playing time. His dad was downright pissed. And Jace couldn't help but wonder who exactly he was pissed at: Jace for allowing himself to be hurt, or the guys who wouldn't let him play? In the long run, it didn't matter, because if Michael Wayland was pissed, there was only one person he had to take it out on.

And Jace didn't feel like being that person tonight.

He gingerly made his way up the walk behind Sebastian, the echo of car doors slamming shut all up and down the street. Sebastian opened the door and Jace, along with half his school, filed inside. He didn't even stop to shoot the shit with anyone before he headed for the stairs.

"Dude, you sure you don't want a drink or something at least?" Sebastian asked.

Jace shook his head. "I'm just going up stairs. I'm not in the mood for this shit tonight." Plus, the medic had given him pain killers and he wasn't stupid enough to mix them with alcohol.

"Is Shortcake coming with Iz later?"

Jace shrugged. "Dunno. Maybe."

Sebastian patted Jace carefully on the back. "Okay, dude. Well, you know where I'll be if you get sick of sulking like a baby girl."

Jace shot Sebastian a glare and started up the stairs. When he reached the top, he entered Sebastian's room and closed the door behind him. Downstairs, a stereo turned on and some kind of thumping dance shit blared. Jace could make out the laughter and shouting from the partygoers as well, but it was muffled enough by the door that he could at least hear himself think.

Looking around, Jace scowled. What a pigsty, honestly. Along with the piles of dirty clothes and overflowing trash, Sebastian's room was covered in posters of scantily clad girls in various seductive poses. Not that Jace didn't like to look, but he would never put this shit on his walls. Why would he want to advertise how much of a teenage dick he really was?

Jace slipped off his shoes, turned out the light, and fell onto his back on the bed. He groaned at the resounding ache and stared at the ceiling. He didn't even feel like going through Seb's porn stash, which Jace knew he kept in the most cliché spot imaginable—stuffed between his mattress and box spring.

He didn't want to do anything or see anyone. Well, that wasn't exactly true. Shifting a little to the side, Jace reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He pressed the button on the front and the screen lit up.

No new messages.

He sighed and tossed his cell to the mattress beside him. After witnessing the huge crowd still filling the field and hearing the chants and cheers coming from Southeast's spectators after the game, Jace figured Clary would be busy for awhile. It was probably best. She didn't need to see him like this. Even so, he still wanted her there. Of all the people in his life, she was probably the only one who wouldn't give a shit that he lost the game.

Closing his eyes, he thought back to that moment, the one when everything had gone to hell. He could see the whole field, feel the ball in his hand, hear the crowd cheering. He could make out every step he did right, and every one he did wrong.

Damn it.

A light knock on the door brought him out of his thoughts, and he felt strangely drowsy, like he'd been woken from a deep sleep. But he hadn't been asleep, had he? His phone buzzed at his side, and he rolled to retrieve it, groaning with the effort. He picked it up and pressed the button just as there was another, louder knock on the door.

"This room's occupied. Go away!" he called, as he looked at his phone.

One new message. Clary. From twenty-five minutes ago. Shit. He had fallen asleep.

Another knock and then the crack of the door opening; a small shaft of light spilled over the carpet. Jace was about to bitch whomever it was out, when he heard the person speak.

"So, I heard there was a cute, broody blond boy up here that might need some cheering up."

Jace frowned on the outside but smiled on the inside. "Cute? I'm not _cute_."

The voice chuckled, and the door opened wider, bathing the entire room in bright light and surrounding a tiny girl's silhouette, _her_ silhouette, before she closed the door behind her. Jace blinked at the darkness.

"But you're not denying the brooding part?"

"Hmph," Jace grunted, as the mattress beside him dipped down and a warm body stretched out next to his. "If you call being in a shitty mood broody, then I guess I can't deny that." He let his arm fall from his chest and brush hers. "I just got your text. I guess I fell asleep."

"S'ok." A warm hand reached out and took his. "I'm sorry about the game."

"Yeah." Jace reached up with his other hand and scrubbed it over his face. "I should probably warn you that I'm in an ass-faced mood."

"I can go if you'd rather be alone."

"No." He turned his face toward her and could just make out the outline of her features in the low light coming in from the window. "Don't go. I'm glad you're here," he said.

Clary turned to face him. "Okay." She paused, and Jace felt her thumb swipe the top of his hand. When she spoke again, her voice was very small and a little nervous. "Are you really okay?"

"Yeah."

"You scared the crap out of me," she whispered. "I didn't think you were going to get up. And I'm really ticked that you made me act like a girl."

Jace reached out to touch her face, her skin so soft and warm under his fingers. "I'm sorry I scared you. It was really nothing. They hit me just right in the spot where the weights bruised me and I . . . Christ, this is embarrassing . . ." he mumbled, "and I, well, I kind of passed out for a minute. But I'm fine. Just a little bruised, that's all."

"But they were calling the ambulance for you. I thought . . ."

He scooted over and touched his forehead to hers. "Just an over-exaggeration of my injuries. I promise I'm fine."

Clary was silent for a moment, and then she asked, "Can I see?" almost as if she were embarrassed to ask.

"See what?"

Clary sat up and looked down at him. "Your bruises. Can I see?"

Jace raised his brows. "You want to look at my chest?"

"Your bruises," she corrected. "And yes, may I?"

He hesitated. "Well, sure—but only if you promise not to freak out."

"Why would I freak out?"

"Just—just promise, okay?"

"Okay, I promise I won't freak out," she said, warily.

Jace stalled for a moment. He had no problem showing her his chest—under normal circumstances—but he knew how bad the bruises looked and he didn't want to frighten her further. But she'd asked and he wasn't about to tell her no.

Lifting himself to a seated position, he held his breath and bit back a groan as the pain ripped through him. He twisted his body until he sat on the edge of the bed and bent to turn on the lamp. Clary slipped off the mattress and came to stand in front of him. She knelt and placed her hands on his knees. Her eyes were so big and bright, nervous, her lips so pink. He wanted to kiss them.

"You sure this is okay?" she asked, gesturing to where his hands had already popped open the first button. "I mean, you don't have to show me if you don't want to."

"Yes," he said, a little nervous at what her reaction would be.

Slowly, he worked the buttons on his shirt, slipping them one by one from their holes until the whole thing hung loose. He didn't open it, though, thinking maybe he should let her. Clary raised her hands, tentatively, and pried the fabric apart, gasping when his chest was revealed to her. Lifting one hand to her mouth, she shook her head, her wide eyes never leaving him.

"God, Jace . . ."

"You promised you wouldn't freak out," he said.

"I'm not, but," Clary reached out and touched him, feather-light, in the very center of his chest where the bruises were almost black in color, "this is so much worse than I thought. You should have ice on this. Are you sure it's not worse than just the bruises?"

Jace closed his eyes and a trembling breath escaped his lips. "Yes." God, it felt good when she touched him. She slid her hand across his pec and up to his shoulder, her fingers barely tracing his skin, but enough to make him shiver.

At the movement, she pulled away from him and he opened his eyes. "Am I hurting you?" she asked.

"No." He grabbed her hand and brought it back to his chest, laying her entire palm over his heart. "I don't think I can even describe how good it feels when you touch me. Please, don't stop."

Carefully, she started to trace his chest again, outlining the darkest parts at the center and slowly fanning out to the purple, red, and yellow. Jace knew he looked like shit, but the way she was touching him, the way she was looking at him, did things to him that he could hardly comprehend. Her fingers were a drug, and with even this lightest touch, he was hooked. It was like she just flipped some switch inside him that made him just _want_ so badly. His entire body buzzed with it.

He lowered his head to hers and the scent of her shampoo engulfed him. Flowery. Lilacs, maybe. His lips brushed her forehead and down the side of her face. Heat rippled across his skin and he couldn't get enough of her: her smell, her warmth, her softness. "Do you know how much I want to throw you down and kiss the shit out of you right now?"

Her breath and fingers faltered, but her words didn't. "Probably as much as I want you to," she said.

Jace groaned at the injustice of it all. "God-damn Kaelie. God-damn defensive line."

"God-damn Jonathan," she added, then sighed. "It's probably for the best anyway." Her touch continued to feather along his collarbone and shoulder, only serving to increase the want building inside him. Jesus, she was driving him insane. "We probably shouldn't rush the physical stuff. Right? We shouldn't?"

As she spoke, her eyes fixed on his mouth. She sounded so unsure, like she wanted him to tell her she was wrong, that they should just go full steam ahead, that they shouldn't be cautious. Truth be told, he didn't want to take anything slow. He wanted to throw her down right then, to cover her body with his, to slip his hands up her shirt and down her pants, to feel her squirm beneath him, to hear her breathe his name.

"You probably shouldn't," he shivered again as she slipped her hands under the collar of his shirt and it slid off his shoulders, "ask me that," he couldn't help but grab her waist as her fingers circled his biceps, "right now."

"Why not?"

"Because I might give you an answer you really don't want." His nose brushed hers, and he could feel her warm, shallow breaths against his face. "Or maybe that you do."

Clary tilted her face slightly and their lips touched. Just barely, but it was enough. She let out the tiniest whimper, and Jace couldn't stop himself from pressing his mouth harder against hers. She tasted sweet, like cotton candy. He traced her bottom lip with his tongue, asking nicely, so nicely, and she opened for him. Her fingers curled into his shoulders and she wiggled between his legs, as if she wanted to get closer, needed to get closer. Jace had absolutely no problem with that because he needed her closer too. He tightened his grip on her waist and lifted her to stand, fitting his knees between her legs and pulling her down onto his lap. Her breath caught and he groaned when she shifted right over the very part of him he most wanted her to.

Jace's lips moved from hers down to her chin, her throat, her shoulder. Her pulse thrummed against his mouth and her thighs squeezed his hips. Every ounce of good sense and self control dissolved as his fingers hooked the belt loops on her pants and he pulled her hard over him once more. This time both of them let out a little cry as their bodies pressed together. God, he needed her. She was right there and so hot and tasted so good and he couldn't help himself. Jace moved her again, and again, and again, his hips shifting up and against her, and Jesus, he was probably going to have a mess here in a minute. But he didn't give a shit. She felt too good and it had been too long.

His hands left her jeans and slipped up under the hem of her shirt. He needed to touch her, needed to hear her breath quicken and her throat give off that tiny squeak of surprise when their flesh connected, and he wasn't disappointed. Her skin was so warm, hot really, and he could feel the grooves of her ribs under his fingertips. He wanted to study them, to map them out, every dip, channel, and curve of her body, and then he wanted to memorize them with his mouth, his tongue. The tops of his hands grazed the underwire of her bra and he could barely contain himself.

"Oh, God," she said, and her voice went straight to his lap. "Oh, please, Jace, I need you to . . ." Her hands fisted into his hair, and the way she breathed his name had him spiraling even faster, igniting even hotter. "Please. I need you to . . . I need you to . . . God, you have to . . . stop."

Stop? What the hell?

As hard as it was, Jace stopped. His hands curled into her sides and his breath came fast and hard, the lower half of his body throbbing and about ready to explode. "What?" His voice was hoarse, strained. "Shhhhhhit."

Clary was trying to breathe, her cheeks flushed a bright red. "I'm sorry, but . . . Isn't this . . . isn't it . . . too fast. Shouldn't we slow down a little? Maybe?"

Jace lowered his forehead to her shoulder and let out a real whimper this time, because God-damn it. His body was on the edge, exposed, raw; he actually kind of felt like crying.

"I'm sorry." Her hands were still in his hair, her face lowered to his head. "I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have—but you make me—and I want to—God, I'm sorry. I just don't want to go too fast. I don't want to mess this up."

"It's okay," he mumbled into her shoulder. "Just—just give me a minute to, ahhh shit." He clenched his eyes shut as his body reminded him that he had a girl sitting on top of his _very ready_ part.

She made to get up and the movement sent a jolt of raw need through him, so powerful, so _right there_, it hurt to hold back. He gripped her hips hard and held her still. "Jesus. Shit. Damn it. Don't move. Okay? Just . . . just don't move."

She froze. "Are you . . . are you really, um, that close?" Her voice sounded strange. Amused?

"Shut up," he said, into her shirt, the words forced, "it's been awhile, okay? And I don't even remember the last time."

"No, that's not what I . . ." Her voice trailed off.

Jace looked up and furrowed his brows. She leaned in and kissed his mouth, her fingers lingering at his jaw. When she pulled back, she looked him straight in the eye, hers filled with curiosity.

"How close? Tell me the truth."

Was it wrong that it turned him on more for her to ask that? Probably. "About three seconds from making a huge mess."

"Three seconds?"

"Give or take."

"Hmm," she said, and looked down at the space between them.

"Hmm, what?" he asked.

She looked back up. "I've never made a boy, well, you know, _that_ excited before."

"Not true," he said, tucking her hair behind her ears. "We know for sure you have at least once."

Her cheeks flared. "Well, I don't remember that. And anyway, that's because we, well, we . . . you know. And it probably was just that and not . . . me . . . doing anything, really."

Jace shook his head. "Trust me. It's you." He pulled her face down and kissed her. "It was you then. It's you now. You turn me on so damn much. So much more than I've ever been turned on before."

Her smile stretched the whole width of her face. "Liar."

"No," he said, running his nose along the edge of her jaw and nipping at the soft flesh underneath. "This is actually pretty embarrassing. I shouldn't be ready to pop after two minutes of making out."

"So, if I just . . ." Clary shifted her hips over him. "Then I could make you . . .?"

"Shiiiit, Clary," he groaned into her neck, and dug his fingers into her hips to hold her still. "Most definitely. So you should probably stop that if you want me to be able to restrain myself."

Clary didn't say anything for a few seconds, and Jace looked up, finding her chewing on her lip.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

She shook her head. "Nothing, but," a look of determined curiosity came over her face, "can I make you?"

"Can you make me what?"

"Can I make you?" she repeated, and shifted her gaze to his lap and back to his face.

He blinked. "Are you asking permission to get me off?"

She shrugged, and he breathed out a long, slow breath, his heart pounding uselessly against his ribs, since he was pretty sure there was no blood there anymore anyway. "For future reference, don't ever ask a guy that if you want an answer that doesn't make him look like a selfish asshole."

"So that's a yes, then, right?"

"Shit, Clary." He would have liked to prove that he was a decent guy and tell her she didn't need to do anything for him, but, damn it, right then he was a selfish asshole and he really, really wanted to get off. "It's definitely not a no."

"Tell me if I hurt you?" she whispered, and carefully touched the middle of his chest.

"Believe me, you're not going to hurt a God-damn thing." He cupped a hand around her neck, pulling her face down to his, and she kissed him so hard and deep he could barely breathe.

With her tongue in his mouth and her hands fisting his hair, she started to move, so slow, so deliciously slow, yet so hard against him. Jace's conscience screamed at him: Asshole! Asshole! But good God, the things she was doing to him made him not care, made him incapable of anything but helping her along. He grabbed her hips and moved her faster, harder, until both of them were nothing but panting balls of hormonal fire. His fingers dug into her and he groaned her name against her mouth as the flame in his belly increased, burning so hot, coiling so tight, building, building, building, until the pressure was so much, so overwhelming, the only thing he could do was let go.

And let go he did, wrapping his arms around Clary's small body and holding her tight against him as his shuddered and jerked. He buried his face in her shoulder, holding his breath as he rode it out. The pain in his chest was there, but God, the good was so damn _good_ he didn't even care.

Clary's arms went around his back, but she was careful not to squeeze too tightly. When it was finished, he was panting and sweat beaded his brow. He turned his face into her neck, and could feel the heat of his own breath as it rebounded off her skin.

His body still sparked and shuddered as he came down. "Holy shit," he said. "What did you—holy shit."

Clary giggled and Jace felt her lips graze his temple. "Okay?"

"Jesus Christ. Okay? Yes. More than okay. Shit." He shuddered again and she laughed softly, her breath ruffling his hair.

"I didn't hurt you, right?"

"No, you didn't hurt me." He kissed the curve of her neck where it met her shoulder. "Definitely, definitely didn't hurt me."

"You know," she said, after a few moments, "I think that was more like five seconds. Not that I was counting or anything."

Jace chuckled. "Leave me alone. It's not usually that fast." He let his fingers play along the edge of her jeans, his breath still a little ragged. "But in my defense, I am eighteen and it really has been a long time. Not since we . . . And I told you you make me crazy." He still couldn't get enough of touching her, and more than anything, he wanted to make her feel what he'd just felt. His fingers danced across her waistband and dipped just inside. "Do you want me to . . .?"

Clary placed her hand over his. "That's okay. I'm okay."

"But I can make you feel good too."

She chewed on her lower lip. "Well, I'm not sure . . . I'm not sure I'm ready for that . . . yet." The way she looked at him was nervous, uncomfortable. Her face was red. "Is that okay?"

"Is that okay? Of course it's okay. I just don't want you to feel jipped." And he couldn't deny the desire to watch her fall apart above him, see her head thrown back with her creamy white throat exposed, hear her quickened breath and whispered pleas, feel her thighs clench around him. Shit.

"I don't. That was . . . well, it was pretty cool."

Jace smiled. "Yes, it was. It was very cool. I liked it a lot." Her face was still blazing and she had yet to look at him. "Hey. Don't be embarrassed. Come here." She leaned in and he smoothed the hair away from her face before kissing her lips gently. "You don't have to be embarrassed about this stuff with me. Okay? And when you want me to, when you're ready, I will happily repay the favor—in double or even triple if that's what you want. But I won't pressure you. I may be a selfish asshole sometimes—now being a perfect example—but I promise I won't do that."

Clary met his gaze but instead of speaking, she leaned in and touched her mouth to his, kissing him softly, carefully, like he might break or was in some way precious to her. It was unlike any kiss he'd had before, and it sparked something in him, something _un_comfortable yet comfortable at the same time.

"I don't understand how you can be the same boy my dad and Jonathan have talked about all these years," she said. "You may think you're a selfish asshole, but you've been nothing but good to me. I kind of feel like I'm the one that's selfish, because this? What just happened? I wanted that. I wanted to do that to you. I wanted to make you feel good, and to know it was me making you feel that way."

"Okay, well, if your idea of being selfish is doing that, then be my guest to be selfish whenever you want," he said, moving in to kiss her again, and then grimacing when she shifted over the cooling mess in his pants.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"Nothing's _wrong_, it's just . . . well, I have to do something about these damn pants. This shit is really disgusting."

Clary blinked and then realization dawned on her still flushed face. She gave an embarrassed giggle and buried her face in his neck, the puffs of her warm breath giving him chills. Jace hugged her tight and thought, even with an aching chest and sticky pants, he'd never felt better.

"Thank you for showing up here tonight," he said into her hair. "You didn't have to, and I know you had a lot of stuff you could have been doing to celebrate with your own school, but I'm so damn glad you came to me."

"Uh huh, I'm sure you are." Jace could hear the smile in her voice.

"Not because of that—well, not only because of that." He tucked his hands around her face and lifted until she looked up at him. "I know you're scared about this, about going too fast with the physical stuff, especially considering what's already happened between us and the consequences of that. And while I admit that I'm so attracted to you I could explode—and quite literally just did—you have to know that's not why I'm here, right?" He studied her face, the way her eyes took him in and softened when she accepted what he said as truth. "I'm here because I want to be. Because I want you in every way and I want you to want me in every way too. I love talking to you, teasing you, touching you. I love that you care enough to want to be with me at all. And I'm so glad you worry enough to be scared when I'm hurt. That you put up with my shitty mood over a stupid game. And that you don't tease me too much about my pathetic self control when we're making out."

"I can't promise on that last one."

Jace smiled and traced his fingers along the freckles dotting her cheekbones. "But mostly, I'm just really glad you're mine. That you're giving me a chance at all." Her eyes grew wide and he leaned down to kiss her pink lips. "Really, really glad."

And he was, because for the first time in his life, he felt like he knew exactly where he was supposed to be. Right there. Right here. At this moment and this time. With this girl.

His girl.

Clary smiled, that soft, shy smile that only touched the corners of her mouth and made her look so vulnerable. Reaching up, she intertwined her fingers with his and brought his palm to her chest. Under her shirt, he could feel her heart beating, fast but steady.

"You're going to steal this, aren't you?" she said, and there was real uncertainty, real fear in her eyes.

Jace shook his head. "I'm not going to steal anything. But if you ever trust me enough to give it to me," he whispered, "there's no way in hell I'm giving it back."

* * *

><p>I love the awkward.<p>

Until next time, XOXO ~ddpjclaf

_**Lyrics for Sexy and I Know It are the property of LMFAO, not me._


	14. People Always Leave

******The character names of The Mortal Instruments are owned by Cassandra Clare. The original content, ideas and intellectual property of this story are owned by ddpjclaf, 2011. Please do not copy, reproduce, or translate without express written permission.******

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Fourteen "People Always Leave"<strong>

_Thank you to LLWB for beta'ing this chapter. :)  
><em>

_Chapter songs:_

_**London Rain (Nothing Heals Me Like You Do) – Heather Nova_

_**Give Me Love – Ed Sheeran_

_**Shattered – O.A.R._

_**Daydream Believer – Mary Beth Maziarz_

* * *

><p>When Clary awoke the next morning, she wasn't in her own bed. Her mind, still in those precious few moments of not asleep and not yet awake, where everything was a hazy blur of reality and dreams, started to clear. The sound of rain pattered against the window and low gray light filtered in through the glass. A naked blonde woman sitting on a black stallion stared seductively down at her from the ceiling, only the long, bleached locks shielding Clary's eyes from all the girl-parts she didn't want to see.<p>

She blinked the sleep from her eyes and looked around. More posters of partially clothed or naked women, overflowing trash, and piles upon piles of what Clary assumed were dirty clothes stared back at her.

The certainty of where she was clicked in her mind. She was in Sebastian's room. And then something else clicked too.

She wasn't alone.

Clary became very aware of a weight pressing on her abdomen. It wasn't too heavy, but it was enough to make taking in a deep breath difficult. She looked down and again saw blond. But this blond wasn't bleached and draped over a naked woman's chest. This blond was golden, slightly curled, and attached to a very warm and very asleep boy. Heat pooled in her cheeks as Clary realized what this meant.

She'd slept with Jace Wayland, but like, actually slept this time.

He lay sprawled across the bed—while she was pushed all the way to one side—his legs tangled in a dark blanket, and his head resting on Clary's lower chest. He had one arm tucked against his side and the other wrapped around her stomach, holding her as if she were a pillow. Which, if she wanted to get technical, she kind of was. Clary bit her lip to hold back a laugh. It was so cute the way he was twisted up with her, the way he held her like a possession, even the way he was a total bed and blanket hog. She couldn't see his face, just all that blond hair everywhere, but she imagined his face in sleep would be just as cute. He seemed to hate that term, but Clary couldn't help but think that's what he was—along with beautiful, hot, gorgeous, whatever other adjective one wanted to use to describe a good-looking guy. But the cuteness wasn't about his looks; it was about him, who he was, what he was.

He was cute, and Clary liked cute.

Clary could have stayed there all day, letting his weight press down on her, letting him hold her despite the inability to breathe deeply (Who needed to breathe when they were in this position with a beautiful boy?) but her oddly kinked back had other ideas. She shifted a little, trying not to wake him, but his grip tightened around her. It was at that moment that her stomach gave her that familiar, warning jolt.

"Oh, no," she said to herself. Swallowing against the beginning of the nausea she knew would only get worse, she lowered her hand to Jace's hair and threaded her fingers through it, shaking him slightly. "Jace? Jace, I need to get up."

He started to stir, but didn't move off from her.

"Jace, please," she said, breathing slow and deep through her nose to hold the nausea at bay.

"Hmm?" he hummed into her shirt, his voice still thick with sleep.

If Clary hadn't been about ready to puke, she'd have thought that was adorable too. "I need to get up," she repeated.

"Why? It's still early."

"Well, I could just blow chunks in your hair if you'd like?"

Clary didn't think she'd ever seen anyone leap so fast, but she didn't have time to consider that. She jumped up and raced to the door, realizing in horror that she had no idea where to go. With her hand over her mouth, she croaked out, "Bathroom?"

"Across the hall," Jace said, the sleep almost completely gone from his voice now.

Clary flung the door open, the knob bashing into the wall with a loud thunk, and raced across the hall to the nearest doorway. Once inside she slammed the door shut behind her and knelt beside the toilet. She curled her fingers around the cool seat and tried to support herself with her shaking arms. Her stomach squeezed and her throat clenched involuntarily as she tried to swallow. She gagged a few times, enough to illicit a thin layer of sweat across her forehead, but nothing came up. Letting out a slow, cleansing breath and closing her eyes, the nausea abated somewhat, leaving her stomach aching and tight.

She pressed her face to the back of the toilet. The porcelain tank felt cool against her cheek. God, she hated this. An unhappy rumble came from her stomach just as she heard a light knock at the door.

"Just a minute," she said, her voice coming out raspy. She cleared her throat. "I'm almost done."

"It's just me," came Jace's voice through the door, "I brought you something."

Clary opened her eyes and leaned back against the tub. "Oh. You can come in."

The door opened a crack and Jace stuck his head inside, finding her immediately. His hair was a riotous mess of gold, his eyes concerned. "You okay?"

She lifted her hand to gesture to the toilet. "False alarm. For now anyway."

"Oh. Good." Jace looked down and bit his lip. "Well, I, uh, I got you these." He held out a sleeve of saltine crackers and a bottle of water. "You said they helped so . . ."

Clary blinked, astounded, amazed, that this boy, this eighteen-year-old boy who shouldn't have to think about anything like this, would remember what she said helped when she felt sick. It took her a second to get a hold of herself, and then she gestured him forward. He stepped inside the bathroom, closing the door behind him, and walked over to her, handing her the crackers and bottled water. Clary tipped her head toward the floor, offering him a seat beside her. He hesitated.

"It's okay," she said. "I promise I won't puke on you."

Jace closed the distance between them and lowered himself to the ground beside her. Clary opened the packet, taking one cracker for herself then offering him one. He shook his head and looked down at his hands, a tiny bit of pink coloring his cheeks. Clary snickered.

Jace glanced up. "What?"

"Nothing." She shrugged. "You're just cute, is all."

He frowned. "How many times do I have to tell you, Clary, I'm not 'cute'. Men are not 'cute'."

"Yes, you are." Clary reached up and touched his face. "I don't mean here. Here you're . . . well, more. But here," she lowered her hand to his chest, making sure to touch lightly over his bruises, "here you're cute."

"Pretty sure I'm not cute there either. Unless you equate blood and muscle and veins to puppies and kittens."

"Ugh," Clary smacked him in the shoulder. "I thought the point of you bringing me crackers was to get me_ not_ to puke?"

"Sorry, but you had it coming." Jace grinned and then his face went serious again. "But I'm not cute," he reminded her.

"Fine. You're hideous. Disgusting."

"At least that's better than cute." He settled back against the tub, his arm brushing hers with the movement. The heat of him reminded her of the night before, how his hands felt on her bare skin; how he'd touched her in a way she couldn't remember ever having been touched before. Goosebumps rose on her flesh.

"Out of curiosity," Clary cleared her throat and munched on a few more crackers, taking sips of water in between to help her swallow the salty, dry crumbs, "why don't you like being called cute? It's supposed to be a compliment."

"Because it's used an equal amount of time as an insult." He paused. "My dad uses it when he's telling us we're doing something wrong: 'Oh, how cute, now let's actually play football.' Or: 'Now that we've gotten through all the cute and cuddly, let's hit like real men.' You know," Jace shrugged, "it kind of doesn't mean the same thing anymore."

Clary had the urge to junk-punch Jace's father. "Well, can I call you sweet? What about adorable? Charming? Pretty?"

"Pretty?" Jace looked at her in horror. "Shit, no. Hot? Yes. Gorgeous? Yes. Sexy as hell? Double yes. But under no circumstances are you allowed to call me pretty."

She snorted and went back to her crackers. Giving him the side eye, she shook her head. "Nah, I'm sticking with cute." Jace groaned and Clary laughed harder. "But I don't mean it in a rude way. I mean it like I'd say it about a sweet, adorable, little baby—" And the words just died in her mouth.

Baby. She'd said the word baby, and everything around her came into sharp focus again. The reason they were sitting there, in that room, with her eating those crackers at all. She swallowed hard, the sound seeming loud and disruptive in the sudden silence.

"Sometimes I forget," Jace said quietly. "When I'm with you and we're just talking and laughing and stuff, I forget about that. I forget about everything but you."

"There's nothing wrong with that," Clary said, setting the package of crackers down on the floor beside her, her appetite gone.

"Isn't there? Shouldn't I always remember? It's not like you get to forget."

"I just did." She glanced up at him. "Sometimes when I'm with you, I forget too. I like forgetting, Jace. For just those few moments, it's nice not remembering that I have to make some really big decisions, that everyone who looks at me will know what I did, that soon I'll have to tell my parents and face whatever they throw at me. So, no, I don't think there's anything wrong with not remembering sometimes, and I don't think either of us should feel bad about it. There will come a time very soon, that no matter how hard we try, we won't even have those few seconds of not remembering anymore."

Jace closed his eyes, draped his arm across her shoulders, and pulled her into his side. His lips brushed lightly over her forehead. She liked how it felt there in the curve of his arm, how no matter where they were or what they were facing, she was safe there.

"What we did," he said.

"What?"

"You said everyone would know what you did, but it's what we did. Everyone will know what _we_ did."

"Oh, right." Clary's cheeks heated. "That's almost worse."

"Why?"

"Because . . . because it's private. What we did. No one else needs to know."

"Are you ashamed?" he whispered into her hair.

"I . . . I don't know," she stammered. "Are you?"

Clary felt his breath tremble against the skin of her temple. "I'm not ashamed of what we did," he said, and she closed her eyes as he continued. "But I am ashamed of how it happened. That you were drunk and I took advantage of you. That I stole something that wasn't mine. That I didn't protect either one of us, and for what resulted because of that. Those things, yes, I'm ashamed of, but never of being with you."

Clary looked up at him. "When are you going to stop feeling so guilty about that?"

"Probably never." He smiled, but it was small. "And I don't really think I should."

"You didn't steal anything I wasn't willing to give, Jace. Even though I don't remember much about that night, I know that."

He shook his head and looked away from her, unwilling to forget, to forgive himself.

She sighed and shifted until she sat on her knees between his legs, her hands resting on his thighs. "Would it help if I tell you what I remember about that night?"

He shrugged. But the look in his eyes as they shifted from one of hers to the other, said that maybe it would.

"Okay." She glanced around the room and let out a slow breath. "I remember coming up here with you and I was bleeding. You . . ." she reached down and took his hand, "you took care of me and put a Band-Aid on my finger. I'm pretty sure I told you I liked your hair and I thought you were pretty." Jace laughed, and Clary shook her head at the memory, before looking up and meeting his gaze. "And then I told you I wanted to stay here with you. Even though you said we should go. Even though you tried to make us go, I remember not wanting to leave. Somehow, I tripped and pulled you with me into the door. I grabbed you by the pockets of your jeans and I held you against me, and I told you again that I didn't want to go." Her voice lowered to a whisper. "I didn't want to let you go. So you see," she swallowed, "you can just stop feeling bad about it. You tried to go, but I wanted you to stay. And you did. You stayed."

Jace stared at her for a moment, letting her words fill their heads and the spaces around them. Then he reached for her, cupping his hand around the back of her neck and drawing her forward. With the lightest touch, he kissed her lips, mouth closed and so softly it could have been a breeze. And then he pulled her in, wrapping his arms around her and holding her close, tight. So close and so tight, it was as if he needed her to hold himself up. She couldn't remember ever being held like that before, not by her mother, nor Simon, nor anyone. It was so unyielding, so all encompassing, Clary could have sworn she felt his heart beating in her own chest.

"I'm glad I stayed," he said into her neck. "As stupid and wrong as that is considering what's happened, I just can't bring myself to regret it. Because if that hadn't happened, we might not have met at all, and even if we had, I highly doubt we'd be together right now."

"No," Clary agreed. "Probably not."

"I like where we are right now," he whispered. "I like how this feels. In spite of everything, God, I like this. And I want to stay, Clary. I really want to stay."

"You can, Jace. You can stay right here."

"But what if I can't? What if when everyone finds out . . . what if I can't?"

Clary didn't want to think about what would happen when their parents found out. She was almost certain their fathers would be irate, but she didn't know what they could do about any of it. What was done was done. They couldn't change the fact that she and Jace wanted to be together. They couldn't change the fact that she was already pregnant. But even as she tried to reassure herself with those thoughts, the echo of Jace's fear whispered in her ear: _What if I can't?_ Not wanting to consider the implications of the question, Clary closed her eyes and squeezed Jace tighter.

"You can," was all she said in return.

.o.O.o.

Jace winced at the ache in his chest as he pulled his now clean jeans and boxers from the washer and switched them to the dryer. Actually, it wasn't so much of an ache as an all out horrid crushing pain that made him almost gasp for breath. But he could handle it. Pressing his palms to the top of the machine and leaning into it, Jace breathed in as deep as he could manage and closed his eyes. It was going to take everything he had to pass it off like it didn't kill.

"I don't think that works the same for boys as it does for girls," a voice sounded behind him.

Jace turned, the pain tweaking in his chest, and met the dark eyes of Isabelle. "I thought that was only the washer. You know, the spin cycle."

"Yeah," Isabelle rested her shoulder against the wall next to the closet holding the washer and dryer. "But the dryer has good vibration." She grinned and Jace returned it. He was thinking this was the first time Isabelle had ever spoken to him just to speak to him and didn't threaten any of his man-parts. "Where's Clary?" she asked.

"Bathroom." Jace nodded to the closed door a little further down the hall.

Isabelle's brows raised and she stood up straight. "She okay?"

"Yeah—at least she was when I left her."

"You were in there with her?"

Jace shrugged. "I brought her some crackers."

A strange look passed over Isabelle's face. Jace wasn't sure what it meant, but it didn't give him the impression he should be covering his balls or anything. Her face, usually hard and unforgiving, softened just a little.

"Okay, well," she pushed away from the wall, "I'm just gonna go check on her then."

Jace nodded and started back toward Sebastian's room, when Isabelle grabbed his arm.

"Thanks," she said.

"For what?"

"For not being the massive asshole most guys your age would have been in this situation. In the midst of all the unfairness and crap of this whole thing, if this had to happen to her, I'm glad at least it happened with someone like you."

"So, you're saying you're glad I'm the one who knocked Clary up?" Jace frowned. "That's not a very nice thing to say to a friend."

"We're not friends." She reminded him and slugged him in the shoulder. "And you know what I meant—it was a compliment to your surprisingly low level of douchiness."

"I'm not sure that that would be considered a compliment from a normal person, but from you . . ."

Isabelle narrowed her eyes, the corners of her mouth curling up just slightly. "From me it may be the best you'll ever get. I'm not easily impressed; you should consider yourself lucky, Wayland." She backed toward the bathroom and thrust her thumb at the door. "I'm gonna go now before you make me rescind my compliment."

Jace smiled as she disappeared into the room across the hall. As quickly as it came, the smile faded and he was alone. Slowly, he made his way back to Sebastian's room. The total disaster of it struck him again. How could Sebastian stand to live like this? Jace's skin crawled, and his fingers itched to clean. Ignoring his impulses, Jace grabbed his phone from the nightstand and was about to shove it into the pocket of Sebastian's borrowed shorts, when he noticed the message light flashing on the front. He pressed the button and saw he had received one new voicemail.

From his father.

Jace sighed and sat carefully on the edge of Sebastian's bed, twirling the phone between his fingers. He didn't want to listen, didn't want to hear the rant if his father was still inclined to give it to him. He felt shitty enough, losing that game. But he also knew if he waited, he'd be wondering what it said all day, so without another moment's hesitation, he pressed the message button and lifted the phone to his ear.

It took a few seconds of listening to silence before his father's voice filled his head.

_I'm assuming you stayed with Verlac last night, since I saw you leave with him._ His father paused, and Jace furrowed his brows. He didn't seem angry, as Jace had expected. _Call me back, son. I wanted to check on you and . . . and we really need to talk. Just—just call me._

The message clicked off, and Jace sat there in disbelief for a moment. Then he pressed play and listened again. Listened for anything he'd been expecting: a trace of anger, a sliver of disappointment. But there was none. Nothing. Slowly, he lowered the phone from his ear and pressed the off button. He sat there, unmoving and staring at the touch screen. What the hell was that all about?

Jace lifted his hand and ran his fingers through his hair. He couldn't understand what was going on. He'd readied himself for rage, for disappointment, for . . . anything. Except the calm and worried tone he'd gotten. Jace didn't know what to do with that. So, he didn't do anything. Not yet. He needed to wrap his mind around this change first. He stood and tucked the phone into his pocket, then made his way down the stairs.

The living room wasn't as big of a disaster as Jace had imagined, though it wasn't what he'd call clean by any means. There were dozens of red plastic cups scattered over every surface, and several empty bottles of hard liquor. But other than that, it was surprisingly in order. No bras hanging from the ceiling fan, no passed out partygoers on the floor. Definitely not a typical Sebastian Verlac party.

"Dude," Sebastian said from his sprawled out position on the couch, his leg hanging out from under a twist of blankets and his arm covering his eyes. "Please tell me you didn't defile that sweet girl on my bed."

Jace stepped fully into the living room and scowled, his eyes settling on his best friend. "Don't ask me shit like that."

Sebastian lifted his arm and looked at Jace, his brows raised. "What? It's a valid question. I'm entitled to know if there's foreign jizz on my sheets." He paused. "Are those my shorts?"

Jace glanced down at the black basketball shorts hanging from his hips. "Oh, yeah. I didn't want to sleep in my jeans." Especially after he'd made a mess of them, but Sebastian definitely didn't need to know that shit.

"Oh, but, seriously. Jizz? Sheets?"

"God. No! Don't be an asshole, Sebastian."

Sebastian sat up and tried to stand but couldn't seem to untangle himself from the blankets wrapped around his legs. "Not that I don't want you to get lucky, man, but that's my bed. I have to sleep in there. And if I had to imagine you getting all up and in that, well . . . actually, I wouldn't mind _that_ much. Not that I want to see that much of you, but Shortcake would be—"

Jace picked up a throw pillow from the end of the couch and smashed it over Sebastian's head. "Don't talk about her like—you know what? Don't talk about her at all." He flung the pillow back to the couch. "And not that I have to tell you anything but I didn't have sex with her, okay?"

"That's too bad. I'm betting Shortcake is a naughty little—"

Jace yanked the blankets that were wrapped around Sebastian's ankles and pulled him to the ground. Sebastian yelped as his butt hit the floor with a loud crack, but Jace wasn't deterred. While his friend was rubbing his ass, Jace moved forward, grabbed Sebastian by the arm and flipped him over onto his stomach. With his knee digging into Seb's back, Jace wrenched Sebastian's arm behind him and pushed his face into the floor. Jace's chest protested, but he ignored it.

"Ow! Shit, dude, take a joke!"

"Maybe I will when you learn to shut your mouth. I told you not to—"

"You see, Clary? This is the type of trouble they get into when we're not around to watch them."

Jace and Sebastian both whipped their heads toward the voice. Isabelle and Clary stood in the doorway to the room, looking at the two boys with amused expressions. Clary was dressed in the same clothing she'd worn the night before: light colored jeans and a long, fitted, gray t-shirt. It wasn't anything special, not flashy or outwardly attention seeking like Isabelle's short black skirt and tight white shirt, but maybe that was why Jace liked it. Because she wasn't looking to impress anyone, yet she did all the same. Her damp hair was pulled into low pigtails that hung half on her shoulder and half down her back. The color looked much darker than the normal orangey-red. The hairdo made her look younger, but the color older.

"You know," Isabelle continued, "I'm not usually into guy on guy action, but I could be okay with this."

Clary tilted her head to the side then crinkled her nose. "No. No, I don't think so." She moved across the room and grabbed Jace by the hand, pulling him to his feet. "This one's mine. Find someone else to fulfill your torrid fantasies, Iz."

Jace's stomach squeezed just a little. She called him hers. She considered him hers. Never in his life did he think he'd like that, but he really liked that.

Sebastian flipped over onto his back and grabbed Jace's leg. "Wait! How can you leave me for her, Sunshine? Does our love mean nothing to you?"

Jace laughed and kicked Sebastian's arms off. "Get off me, asshole."

"Well, can I at least have a round with Shortcake?" Sebastian gave a sly smile. "I'll be gentle."

"God-damn it, Seb. What did I just tell you?" Jace lunged forward, but Clary caught him by the arm.

"Now, now, boys, there's plenty of me to go around."

Sebastian hooted in approval from the floor.

"The hell there is," Jace said, grabbing Clary and lifting her into his arms. He grunted quietly at the pain that shot through him, but did not pause as he strode across the room into the kitchen.

Once inside, he set her gently on the counter island. Her cheeks were flushed and her breath was ragged. For a moment, he thought maybe he'd hurt her, but she was smiling.

"A little caveman, aren't you, _Sunshine_?"

"Shit," Jace groaned, and not just from the fact that she'd used that awful nickname. His breath came faster and shallower than usual.

Her smile faded and she reached out to lay her hand over his aching sternum. "Idiot," she whispered. "You're going to hurt yourself worse carrying me around like that."

"Nonsense," he said. "You weigh, like, three pounds."

"I weigh a lot more than three pounds." The light in her eyes dimmed, and she lowered her gaze to the floor. "Soon I'll weigh even more."

Jace stepped closer to her, fitting himself between her legs, and rested one of his hands on her hip. The other, he raised and touched under her chin, bringing her face up to his. "And I'll still carry you then."

Clary closed her eyes and exhaled a heavy breath. "Sometimes I think you say stuff like that just to get me to kiss you."

"Do you want to kiss me, Clary?" He let his thumb trace the line of her jaw, and she shivered.

"I always want to kiss you."

Jace leaned in until their foreheads touched, then their noses, until her lips were only a breath away. "You can, you know," he whispered. "Whenever you want, you can."

And he expected her to, wanted her to. But she didn't. Instead, she opened her eyes and raised them to his. It was strange, being that close. It gave him the same sensation as crossing his eyes. But from this distance, he could see every fleck of green and gold in her irises. It was amazing and beautiful, and even though it was uncomfortable, Jace could have stayed there forever.

"Sometimes I'm afraid to. Like if I do it too much, you'll disappear. Like it'll be my punishment for what we did, for taking what shouldn't be mine, and I'll wake up and discover that all of this—us—was just a dream, but I'm still pregnant and alone."

Jace pulled back. "Why are you always so insistent that I'm going to walk away? That you don't deserve to have me, when I'm giving myself to you? Why can't you trust that?"

"I'm trying, Jace. But," she met his gaze, "people always leave me. It's natural for me to assume it's going to keep happening."

"Not me," he said. "I'm not going anywhere. I promise."

"You can't promise that."

"I can." He cupped her face in his hands and kissed the tip of her nose. "I just did."

"Jace . . ." she said, her eyes closed and her brows furrowed.

"You're my girl, Clary." He kissed her nose again, her cheek, her chin. "And this," he lowered his hand to her stomach, splaying it across the area under her belly button, "this is mine too." Clary gasped and Jace closed his own eyes, his heart beating a fast, uneven rhythm against his ribs. He was so very aware of where he was touching her, of what he was acknowledging and the promise he was giving. But he meant it. He meant it so much and so completely, he wasn't sure he'd ever meant anything more. Earlier, he'd been afraid their fathers would tear them apart, but he'd decided, in that moment, he wasn't going to let that happen. "I'm not leaving either one of you. Okay? No matter what."

Clary raised her hands and threaded her fingers through his hair, holding his face against hers, and sighed. "What am I going to do with you, Jace Wayland?"

"I can think of several things you could do to and with me on this countertop. Though I fear Isabelle would probably make good of her threat to de-man me if we did."

Clary snorted and Jace could feel the promise of her lips hovering right in front of his. "_I_ fear you're most likely right. So you should probably," she kissed one corner of his mouth and then the other, "take your hand out from under my shirt."

Jace glanced down and realized his hand _was_ under her shirt, his fingers tracing back and forth over her ribs. "Shit," he removed his hand. "I didn't mean to . . . I wasn't really trying—"

"I know," she said, wrapping her arms around his neck and drawing him in closer once again. "I was just teasing."

"That wasn't very nice." He couldn't help but smile.

She grinned in return, her nose brushing his. "So? I never promised to be nice."

"You should be. I'm injured, remember?"

"Oh, that's right. I forgot, what with you being such a stud carrying me around and everything."

"I mask my pain for the benefit of others, but that doesn't mean I don't still feel it."

"Well, excuse me. Is there something you'd like me to do to help ease your suffering?"

Jace grinned wider. "Also another question you should never ask if you don't want me to sound like a perverted ass."

"Maybe I like your perverted ass." She paused and her brows drew together. "Wait . . . I didn't mean—"

"Oh, yes, you did." Jace leaned in and touched his mouth to the lobe of her ear. "It's okay, baby, I like yours too."

Clary let out a sound of mock disbelief and shoved Jace playfully away from her. It wasn't meant to be malicious, Jace knew, but it hurt all the same. He drew in a sharp breath as pain sliced through him and he stumbled back into the refrigerator. Closing his eyes, he let out an involuntary groan and lifted his hand to his chest.

"Oh! Oh, God," Clary said, and Jace heard the sound of her feet hitting the floor. His breath was tight and ragged against his aching ribs. "I'm—I'm so sorry. I forgot. God, are you okay?"

Her hands fluttered against his arms, like she wanted nothing more in the world than to hold him, to soothe him, but was afraid to touch him. Jace opened his eyes and focused on her face. Her brows were drawn together and her eyes shone with a thin layer of unshed tears. Another pang shot through him, but this one had nothing to do with pain—at least not the physical sort.

"I'm all right," he said, once he caught his breath. Lifting his hand, he brushed his thumb under her eye and collected the moisture gathering underneath. "Don't cry."

Red colored her cheeks and Clary looked at the ground, a quiet, breathy laugh escaping her lips. "Telling me not to cry is kind of like telling me not to puke at this point. I can't help it." She looked up and raised her hand again, letting it hover just over his chest. "Are you sure you're okay? I didn't mean to hurt you."

Jace trailed the back of his fingers down her cheek, then opened his hand and laid his palm against her face. She was so small, so _tiny_, his fingers wrapped almost around to the back of her head. "You didn't hurt me."

"But I just—"

Jace shook his head and pressed his thumb to her lip. "Kaelie hurt me._ She_ did. Everything that results from that is because of her, not you."

"Jace . . ." she said from under his thumb.

"No more talking," he said, and bent to kiss her.

Her lips were stiff and hesitant, but Jace was not put off. He brought his other hand up to her face and let his fingers trace the line of her jaw, his lips brushing back and forth against hers to caress a kiss from her reluctant mouth. Finally, slowly, she loosened up, first her shoulders and neck, and then her lips. They turned from hard and unwilling, to soft and eager. She reached up and grasped his arms, pulling him into her with careful insistence. Jace felt his mouth curve into a grin before opening and taking the first taste he'd had of her that day. And it was just as good as the night before, just as hot and sweet and perfect. He wanted to taste more, to feel more, but just as his fingers tightened to pull her in, to deepen the kiss further, a voice sounded from the entrance to the kitchen.

"For Christ's sake, Wayland, is there going to be a day in the near future when I don't walk in and see you molesting my sister?"

This time Jace and Clary did not wrench apart. Instead, Jace removed his lips from Clary's, rested his forehead on hers and counted to ten, then turned in the direction the voice had come. And there, looming in the doorway like the damn cockblocking mood killer he was, was Jonathan Morgenstern.

.o.O.o.

Jonathan stared them down, his eyes hard and cold, and his lip curled slightly in a snarl. He resembled, to Clary, a large guard dog intent on keeping the mischievous cat from capturing the sweet, innocent mouse. But Jace wasn't a cat and Clary certainly wasn't a mouse. Resentment flowed through her at the insinuation that she was not smart enough, or strong enough, to take care of herself. Even if Jonathan had yet to really say anything, the look on his face was enough to tell her what he was thinking.

"Perhaps if you gave a little warning before barging in on us every time, I could arrange it so you missed the 'molestation' part," Jace answered.

"Jace," Clary scolded, and stepped back from him. His hands fell from her face, but did not leave her completely, as he let his fingers tangle with hers. "Jonathan, what are you doing here?"

Jonathan's gaze focused on hers and Jace's clasped hands and his jaw clenched before he looked back up at her. "I could ask you the same thing, but I think it's pretty obvious what you're doing here."

Clary felt Jace's grip on her hand tighten. She squeezed back and locked her elbow to keep him from going all protective boyfriend on her again. "We've been over that already, Jon. Now tell me what you're doing here or just go. I told you I'm not arguing with you about this."

Jonathan opened his mouth to speak, when a loud buzz came from behind Clary. She turned and Jace looked down at his pocket. Letting go of her hand, he reached in and pulled out his phone, his forehead creased.

"It's my dad. He already left a message this morning, so I should answer this." He glanced at Jonathan and then back at Clary. "You gonna be okay?"

Jonathan huffed. "I'm her brother, not a serial killer, dickhead. I'm not going to hurt her."

Jace's eyes narrowed. "How am I supposed to know that? You knocked her on her ass just yesterday."

"That was your fault! You shouldn't have been touching her like—"

"All right!" Clary stepped into the space between the two boys and held up her hands. She turned to Jace. "Take your phone call. I'll be fine." Then she looked at Jonathan. "And you, quit being stupid."

Jonathan mumbled something under his breath and looked toward the window in the front of the kitchen. Jace, glanced between brother and sister for a moment, definite signs of hesitation in his eyes.

"Go," Clary said, and nodded her head toward the door leading to a closed-in porch. "Jonathan would never hurt me on purpose."

Jace eyed Jonathan once more, and without moving his gaze from Clary's brother, leaned in and brushed a kiss to her cheek, whispering, "I'll be right outside."

She smiled and nodded, noticing from the corner of her eye, her brother turn and glare at Jace and Jace glared back. Internally, Clary rolled her eyes. They were both massive idiots.

Clary watched as Jace crossed the kitchen and exited through the door. She could still see him through the narrow windows next to the frame, the phone to his ear, his slim hand thrust into his hair, the tight gray wifebeater clinging to his frame, the black shorts hanging from his hips. It was suddenly very hot in that kitchen.

"If you stare any harder, I'm sure you could burn down that wall between you," Jonathan said, his voice hard and annoyed.

Clare sighed and turned back to her brother. She crossed her arms over her chest. "You never answered my question. What are you doing here?"

"I came for you."

"Why didn't you just call?"

"I tried. It went straight to voicemail every time."

"Oh." Clary frowned. "My battery must have died. I forgot to check the power on it . . ." She eyed her brother. "How'd you even know where to find me?"

Jonathan smiled, but it was not a happy expression. "I have my ways. But from the display you put on last night, I knew wherever he was," he jerked his head in the direction of the porch, "you'd be. And he's not hard to find in this town." He glanced out at where Jace stood then back at her. "Did you sleep with him, Clary?"

Anger and annoyance ignited in her belly, but she answered him truthfully. "Yes." Jonathan made a choked sound and his face paled. "Oh, but if you meant did I have sex with him last night, then no."

"Jesus Christ," Jonathan said, and clutched his hand over his chest. "You nearly gave me a heart attack."

"Maybe you shouldn't ask such stupid and highly personal questions. Even if I did 'sleep with him' in the way you meant, I don't have to tell you. I wouldn't tell you."

"Clare-bear, you don't understand. He—"

"No, _you_ don't understand, Jonathan. You think you know him because you played football against him and because his bitch of an ex whispers crap into your ear—which, if _you're_ sleeping with _her, _you should be aware that up until today, she's being doing her damndest to get back with Jace." The look on Jonathan's face told Clary much more than she wanted to know about the extent of which her brother "knew" skanky Kaelie. "You don't know him at all, so stop trying to warn me away or protect me or whatever the hell this is. I don't need it. I don't want it."

"Fine!" Jonathan said. "You don't want me to protect you? Fine. Do this on your own. But don't come crying to me when he breaks your heart. When he screws you then dumps you and tells everyone what he's done. Because, Clary, as much as you hate this shit between his dad and ours, you can't change what already is. Jace is a Wayland, and you are a Morgenstern. The two aren't meant to mix. Sooner or later you're going to figure that out, and I'll be damned if I'm going to pick up the pieces!"

"Well, I'll be sure to remember that," Clary said, her voice cold.

He sighed and closed his eyes. "I don't want to fight."

"Then go home."

Jonathan looked at her again. "Not without you."

"I don't need a babysitter, Jonathan," she echoed his words from the night before. "Besides, I came with Isabelle. She can take me home."

"No, that's not . . ." Jonathan paused as if to collect himself. "I have to take you home. Dad sent me for you."

Clary furrowed her brows in confusion, and then it dawned on her. "You told him?"

"No," Jonathan shook his head, "I didn't tell him anything."

Relief flooded through her. "Then why does he want me home? I told him I was staying with Izzy, why—"

"It's Mom," he said.

"Mom? Wha—what about her? Is she okay?" Panic fluttered at the edges of her consciousness.

"She's . . ." Jonathan looked down at the floor and then back up at Clary. "She's home."

Clary blinked. "Okay . . . so, why . . . ?"

"She's home and she's packing."

Clary stared at her brother, even more confused. So? Mom came home for a few days often and packed more things to take on the road with her. This was her busiest time of the year, what with all the touring of galleries she did.

"She's packing, Clary." Jonathan seemed to be trying to tell her something, but she just wasn't grasping the importance. "She's packing everything."

A sickening weight dropped into Clary's stomach.

"She's leaving him, baby girl," he said, his voice cracking. "She's leaving us."

.o.O.o.

Jace clicked off the phone and stood frozen to his spot. He stared out at the mass of gray and watched as the sun broke through a few spots and shown down in beams. The phone call he'd just received from his father was not the one he'd been expecting. Actually, he didn't know what the hell he'd been expecting, but whatever it was, it wasn't what he'd gotten.

"Hey, Dad," he'd answered, rubbing his forehead with the tips of his fingers and trying to ward away the headache forming in his temples. "What's up?"

"'What's up'? Is that how you greet your father?"

Jace sighed. "No, sir."

His father grumbled something Jace couldn't make out, and then said, "I got a call from Coach Pangborn this morning."

Jace stood up straighter, his breath catching. "Really? Why?"

"He heard about our loss last night."

Jace closed his eyes and lifted his phone to his forehead and let out the breath he'd been holding, before lowering the phone back to his ear. "So, that's that then?"

"That's that," his father said.

God-damn it. All that work. All that . . . everything. All for nothing. His dreams all came crashing down in one damn moment. One moment where a stupid girl decided to do a stupid thing and now his life was over.

"So, now what?" Jace asked. "What's next? Do I just—"

"I don't think you understand, son." His father's voice was softer.

"What? I—what? Is it just . . . over now? Is that it? I have no other choices? What about Western? Or State, or—"

"No, son," his father said. "He offered you the spot. Starting quarterback for the SEU Giants next fall. Full ride scholarship. It's not over. It's just the beginning. We did it, son. You did it."

Jace could barely breathe as he stood there after the call, his hand nearly crushing his phone. He'd done it. He'd made it. All that work _hadn't_ been for nothing. He was going to start for the SEU Giants. He couldn't wait to tell Clary—

And then he remembered.

Jonathan Morgenstern was the current starting quarterback. Jace was going to take his spot. Shit. This wasn't going to be good. What would Clary say about that? Would she be upset? He turned around and froze when he saw what was happening in the kitchen. Clary was standing still, her hand over her mouth and staring at the wall in front of her. Jonathan had her wrapped up in his arms and seemed to be talking to her. But all Jace could see was the look on Clary's face. It wasn't anger or sadness or even fear. It was devastation.

Jace moved forward and pulled open the door to the kitchen, stopping dead in the doorway when Jonathan lifted his head from Clary's shoulder and peered at Jace. His eyes wore the same expression as his sister's.

"What—what's wrong?" He stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

Jonathan pulled back and glanced down at Clary. "I'll go wait out front."

She nodded and Jonathan exited the room without sparing Jace a passing glance.

"Clary?" Jace said.

She looked up, her eyes glazed and distant.

"What happened? Are you—"

"My mom's leaving my dad. For real this time," she said, her voice so devoid of emotion she barely sounded like herself. "She's back and she's . . . she's packing now."

"Clary . . ."

Jace moved toward her, but she stepped back and held out her hand, warding him away, not wanting him to touch her. He couldn't deny that that stung. She swallowed visibly enough that Jace could see her throat move. He could almost feel her pain in the space between him. It was that thick, that tangible.

She wouldn't look at him. "I need to go home. I need to . . ."

But she didn't finish her sentence; she just stared at the doorway leading out of the kitchen.

"Okay," he said, and managed to take a few steps toward her. He was close enough to touch her now, so he reached for her hand, but just as his fingers touched her skin, she jerked away as if he'd burned her.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "But if you touch me, I'll lose it. I don't want to cry."

A tear streaked down her cheek and Jace itched to wipe it away. "You're already crying."

Clary drew in a ragged breath and swiped the tear away. "I have to go," she repeated, and turned away from him, starting toward the doorway.

Jace wanted to stop her, to pull her into his arms despite her protestations to the contrary. He wanted her to know he was there, that if she needed him, he was there.

She paused when she reached the doorway. With her hand resting on the wall beside it, she turned back and finally met his eyes. "I told you," she said. "People always leave me. Always."

Then she was gone, out the doorway and out of his vision. Jace stood there silently, unmoving, for what felt like forever. The cold truth of her words washed over him, as he realized she was right. People did always leave. His mother had. Her brother had. Her mother was. No one was immune to being left or leaving.

With that painful revelation came another. The leaving and being left wasn't over. Far from it. And after the conversation he'd just had with his dad, the news he'd just received, he understood the cruel reality of who was supposed to leave her next.

Him.

* * *

><p><em>A few things I must address:<em>

_An anonymous reviewer posted the following question and asked me to address it: "When are you going to write 'real' lemons. Like Jace doing things to Clary and what she's feeling."_

_-Um, I'm not really sure exactly what you're asking. If what you meant by 'real' lemons is a very descriptive, detailed accounting of everything they do, feel, say, smell, taste, hear . . . then never. That's not how I write lemons. What you saw in the last chapter is my style of writing intimate scenes between the characters. My focus has always been on the emotional impact of sex and other intimacies. You will get some of the physical, but only enough to give you an idea of what's happening. I really don't think you need me to tell you every little thing. Sometimes imagination is better. ;) If what you meant was "when will Clary get her turn," then the only answer I can give is: when she's ready. Jace asked if she wanted him to "help her along" as she did for him, and she declined._

_On the subject of updating and length between them. Sigh. Please read my tumblr post here: ddpjclaf(dot)tumblr(dot)com/post/19513131048/response-to-anonymous-questions-and-comments-about _

_It explains my stance._

_Thank you to everyone who is reading and reviewing this story. Your enthusiasm and love of these characters is what keeps me going when I feel like giving up (writer's block is evil!). I appreciate your words so much._

_Until next time XOXO ~ddpjclaf_


	15. I Promised You

******The character names of The Mortal Instruments are owned by Cassandra Clare. The original content, ideas and intellectual property of this story are owned by ddpjclaf, 2011. Please do not copy, reproduce, or translate without express written permission.******

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Fifteen "I Promised You"<strong>

_!Since FanFiction was messed up last time, and some people didn't get the notification, please be sure you read ch.14 before reading this!_

_Chapter Songs:_

_**Turning Tables – Adele_

_**New York – Snow Patrol_

_**Wish You Were Here – Avril Lavigne _

_**Never Let Me Go – Florence + The Machine_

_*Pregnancy progression: beginning of ch. 10 weeks. By end, 12 weeks._

* * *

><p>"Do you plan to ever talk to me again?" Jonathan asked from the driver's side of the car, his eyes shifting to Clary and back to the road.<p>

Clary slumped in her seat and turned to look out the passenger window. She wasn't in the mood to talk to Jonathan or listen to his unsolicited advice about her relationship. She was still pissed at him for how he'd barged in on her and Jace—again—and asked her if she'd _slept_ with him. Like she owed him an explanation of who she decided to sleep? Like he had a right to know? She didn't think so.

"Look. I'm sorry, all right? It's just—whenever I see him with you, it just makes me so—"

"I don't want to talk about Jace with you, Jonathan," she said through gritted teeth.

Her brother was silent for a moment, then said, "At least you're talking. I really was starting to think you wouldn't."

She crossed her arms over her chest and continued to watch the scenery speed by. "I don't really think you deserve me to talk to you."

"Maybe not, but I'm your brother, Clary. It's my job to protect you. You can't really fault me for doing my job."

Clary finally turned to look at him. He was staring out the windshield, his jaw set. "So you'd want to kick the ass of any guy I called my boyfriend?"

"Yes." Clary couldn't help but laugh.

"What?" Jonathan asked.

"Nothing. You're just a terrible liar."

"I'm not lying."

"Yes you are," she said. "When Simon and I were together you didn't do anything to him. You even seemed to approve of it."

"That was different."

"How was it different?"

Jonathan didn't say anything for several seconds, then he looked over at her. "Because you didn't look at Simon the way you look at _him_."

Clary turned her gaze back to the window and squinted against the light. "And how do I look at him?" she asked, but really didn't need her brother's answer. She was pretty sure she knew how she looked at Jace.

"Like he's the only thing in the world you can see."

"And that's bad?" She met her brother's eyes.

"Yes. No. I don't know."

Clary blinked in disbelief. "What? But I thought . . ."

Jonathan pulled into their driveway and shut down the engine. His hands lingered at the wheel for several seconds before he let them fall to his lap. "I'm not going to lie and say you looking at _anyone_ like that wouldn't make me uncomfortable, because it would. But the fact that it's him, that it's Jace Wayland, makes me just . . ." He looked at her, and Clary could tell he was struggling to get out whatever it was he was trying to say. "I get that you don't see him the same as I do. That somehow, he's someone completely different to you, but you have to understand that I don't know that person. I only know the asshole he's been for the last four years. And that asshole isn't good enough for my baby sister."

"Would anyone be good enough for me in your eyes, Jonathan?"

"No," he said. "Not a single one of those bastards would ever be good enough for you."

Without hesitation, Clary leaned over the console and wrapped her arms around her brother's neck. She pulled him in and held him to her, her face buried in his shoulder. "But I really like him."

"I know."

"So could you please, _please_, just try to be nice?"

Jonathan let out a huge sigh and pulled back, his black eyes intent on her green ones. "That _was_ me being nice. I didn't hit him, did I?"

"No, you didn't. I suppose that was better than before."

"See?" Jonathan said. "Honestly, I think I should get a medal or something for not throttling the little prick. I mean, he had his tongue in your mouth. His _tongue_! That gives me the right to—" He snapped his mouth shut at the evil glare Clary leveled his way and turned toward the house.

Clary followed his gaze. "How bad is it?"

"I don't know. You'd have to answer that. I wasn't the one kissing him."

She rolled her eyes. "Not that, you idiot." She nodded toward the house. "In there. What am I walking into? World War three?"

Jonathan was quiet.

"Jon?" Clary turned back to him, but he didn't look at her.

After a moment, he shook his head. "Surprisingly, no. They're actually being pretty civil. It's weird. It's like they don't even know one another. Like they're just strangers being nice and cordial to each other. But I can feel it all simmering underneath, and I keep thinking it's going to explode any second."

Clary held her breath and then let it out slowly. "Well, I guess we should just get this over with then."

She reached over and pushed open the car door, stepping out into the damp, chilly air. Jonathan joined her a few seconds later, and together they stood there, staring up at the house that had been their home for as long as they could remember. They'd had some good memories there, but most of what Clary could recall had been filled with fights and tension. For the first time, she thought maybe it was better that her parents were separating. But even as she thought it, she knew she didn't believe it. There would always be a part of her that would want the ideal, the perfect family. The mom, the dad, the two point five kids and the nice house with a white picket fence. Sure it was cliché, but she didn't care. Every kid wanted that. Every kid deserved that.

Her kid deserved that.

The thought came out of nowhere and made Clary's heart clench into a fist. Her kid. She rarely let herself think about what was growing inside her as a kid. But that didn't change the fact that it was. It was a kid. It would someday walk and run. It would laugh and cry and feel all these things she was feeling: fear, pain, excitement . . . and hopefully someday love. She could picture a little boy with red hair like hers, or a little girl with blond hair like Jace's. And for a moment, just a millisecond in time, she let herself wonder what it would be like to look into that child's face and see herself, see Jace. Warmth spread through her chest and made her breath catch.

_No_, she thought to herself. She couldn't think about it like that. This wasn't the plan she'd had for her life: to become a mom at sixteen. And now that her parents were splitting, how could she possibly manage? She remembered the pamphlets she'd gotten from Dr. Penhallow on her first visit, the ones she had stuffed inside her old sketchbooks. There was one about teenage mothers, and the girl on the front was holding her baby and looking down at it with this look on her face. A look that showed nothing but love, and Clary had wondered at the time: how could she ever love a baby she didn't want, and if on some odd chance the girl did want the child, how messed up was she to want something like that as a teenager?

But now . . . now she wasn't so sure. Maybe it was possible. Now that she knew who the father was and she . . . She what? Her throat tightened around the thought of_ what_. She didn't want to think about that or admit it or feel it. It was too soon. Much too soon—

"So, you ready to go in?" Jonathan's voice broke into her thoughts, and Clary jumped at the sound of it. He frowned. "You okay?"

Clary swallowed and nodded. "Yeah." But of course it was a lie. She wasn't okay. Far, far from it, actually. She reached over and grabbed her brother's hand, needing the little extra push to get her mind from where it was to where it needed to be. "Let's go."

Together they walked toward the house, toward a future neither of them was ready to start, toward the dissolution of their parents' marriage. To the beginning and the end of everything they'd ever known.

They entered the house together, and the first thing that struck Clary was the silence. Silence so thick she could almost feel it pressing against her skin. Everything looked the same: the same furniture and photos on the wall, but everything felt different, wrong. It was as if even the house knew what was happening. Clary shivered, and Jonathan squeezed her hand once before letting it go.

"Come on," he said, and started down the hall toward the kitchen.

Clary followed her brother, her eyes on his back the entire way, until he pushed open the door leading into the brightly lit space. At the table her parents sat: her mother to the left, her hands folded on her lap, and her father to the right, his palms flat on the table. Their faces were impassive, none of the hurt or rage Clary had come to know present in their features.

"Hello, dear," her mother said, and Clary's spine stiffened. She didn't sound at all upset that her marriage of over twenty years was over, that she was breaking up a home, that she was abandoning her children.

"Mom," Clary said, the word felt like acid in her throat.

Her mother stood and pulled out the chair beside her. "Why don't you have a seat and we can talk."

"I'd rather stand." Clary crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back against the wall. She couldn't fathom the idea of sitting there while her parents calmly told her that their family was over. It wasn't even a possibility in her mind. As angry as she'd been with her mother for the amount of time she spent working instead of at home, she was still Clary's mother and Clary still needed her.

Jonathan looked back at her over his shoulder. "Clary . . ."

She narrowed her eyes and shook her head.

Her mother sighed and nodded, as if she had expected Clary to react this way. _Good_, Clary thought, at least she was living up to her role as a teenager. To her surprise, Jonathan stepped away from the table and stood beside her at the wall. He dropped his hand to his side, and his pinky hooked hers. A rush of affection flowed over her. They were in this together. No matter what. That's what he was telling her.

"I gather from your reaction that your brother has told you what your father and I have decided?" Jocelyn said.

Clary's father huffed and crossed his arms over his chest. Her mother's gaze darted to him and her eyes narrowed.

"From where I stand you made that decision a long time ago," Clary said.

"Well," her mother's eyes moved from one of Clary's to the other, "I suppose that's true." She took in a breath. "Things have been strained for a long time, and we've tried to hold it together for you and your brother—"

"Really?" Clary couldn't stop the spout of anger rising from her chest. "Is that what you call staying in the city with your _friend_ for weeks at a time? Is that how we hold things together in this house?"

Jocelyn blinked. "I understand how you must feel, Clar—"

"You understand? _You understand? _No, Mom, I don't think you understand anything!"

"Clary," Jonathan warned and pulled back on her hand, but Clary shook it loose, ignoring him, ignoring anything but the rage she felt.

"How can you understand anything?" Clary went on. "You haven't been here for weeks. You don't have a clue what any of us are feeling!"

"Then why don't you tell me?" Jocelyn stepped toward Clary, her hand outstretched.

Clary slapped it away. "Pissed," she spat. "I'm pissed at you, that's how I feel!"

"Clarissa," her father finally spoke from his seat, his eyes so dark, so angry, but somehow, she got it wasn't directed at her. "Don't speak to her that way; she's still your mother. Show some respect."

"Respect?" Clary said, her voice incredulous. "_Respect?_ Why? Why should I show her any respect? She hasn't shown any to us. To you."

Her father glanced away, and Clary saw that he agreed.

"Clary, please. Please just listen." Her mother reached out again, but Clary wrenched back, feeling her brother's hands cup her shoulders.

"No. I think it's time _you_ listen," she said. Jocelyn's brows rose. "You're my mother. _My mother_. It's your job to be here, to take care of us. To take care of me. But you'd rather be in the city with your high class friends and your art. You barely call, you don't come back when you say you will, spouting off some crap about an early show or that you're too tired to drive the hour back home. It's always an excuse with you. It's always _something._ But the fact of the matter is you left us here alone. You left me alone."

"You—you never seemed to mind before," her mother sputtered. "You seemed to understand it was my job."

"I understood it was your job," Clary said much more calmly than she felt. "I also understood it always came before me. That doesn't mean I liked it that way."

"That's not true!"

"Isn't it? Really, Mom?" Clary shook her head. "Don't treat me like I'm stupid." Jonathan's fingers dug into her arms, but it wasn't like he was holding her back, it was more that he was giving her his strength. "This isn't about you and Dad 'finally making a decision'. It's about you. It's always been about you!"

Jocelyn's eyes flashed. "What would you know about any of it? Marriage? Relationships? You're sixteen-years-old and have yet to even have a serious boyfriend. You have no idea the kind of work and sacrifice involved in maintaining something like this—"

"Neither do you, obviously!"

"Okay, that's enough." Jonathan stepped between Clary and her mother, keeping his hands on her. "Mom . . . Clary . . ."

Jocelyn threw her hands up in the air and moved to the other side of the kitchen, placing her palms on the counter and staring out the small window above the sink. Slowly, Jonathan turned to face Clary, his eyes begging her to speak no more. Tears clouded her vision, but she blinked them back.

"She's leaving me," Clary whispered, and somewhere inside her mind she knew that wasn't entirely accurate. She was only moving an hour away, and truth be told, she'd left a long time ago, but back then Clary always thought she'd be coming back. This time, she was never coming back. They would never be a family again.

"I know," Jonathan said.

And the way he said it, with a finality Clary couldn't comprehend, made the dam break and her tears fall free.

Jonathan's face fell. "Clare-bear . . ." He reached up to wipe her tears, but she pushed him away.

"Don't."

Clary looked around the room at her broken family: her father, sitting lifeless and frozen at the table, her mother bent over the sink, her back and shoulders stiff, and her brother, reaching out for her as if somehow his touch should make things better. But nothing could make it better. Nothing would change anything. An unbearable weight pressed down on her shoulders, pushing her down, down, down, until she felt like she would suffocate if she didn't get out. With one last look at her brother's concerned face, she spun and bolted out of the room, up the stairs, and into her room, slamming and locking the door behind her. She flung herself face down on her bed, expecting the sobs that had stayed locked in her chest to burst out, but they didn't. They stayed in, aching and crushing her from the inside out.

She reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone, planning to toss it onto the table beside the bed, when she noticed she had five unread messages. One from Isabelle. One from Simon. And three from Jace.

_Are you okay?_

_Let me know you're okay._

_Please, Clary, let me know you're okay._

Clary closed her eyes and drew in a breath. When she opened them again, she saw his name, and felt how just that calmed her. She pulled up his last message and typed out one of her own.

_**I'm fine.**_

A few minutes later, she received his reply.

_Really?_

_**No.**_

_Do you want to talk about it?_

_**No.**_

_Oh . . ._

_**I just want you.**_

Seconds later, her phone rang. She picked it up, but didn't say a word. She didn't know what to say, and feared if she tried she'd just cry.

"You know I'd be there if I could," he said.

Clary closed her eyes and curled into herself, holding the phone hard against her ear, as hard as she would have held him. "I know."

"What can I do?"

"I don't know," she whispered. "Nothing. Everything. Just stay with me. Talk to me."

"What do you want me to say? I don't know what to say."

"I don't care. Just talk. Tell me stupid stories about Sebastian or football or school. Anything. Just talk to me. If I can't have your arms, I want your voice."

Jace was quiet for several seconds, and Clary almost thought he'd hung up, until she heard him breathing on the other end. "I wish I could give you my arms, Clary."

She squeezed her lids tighter and tried to remember what it had felt like that morning when he had. How he'd held her so tight, her face buried in his neck and her hands clutching the fabric of his shirt. And then she could. She could feel the safety of him, the warmth, the smell. She could imagine it. Remember it. "You are," she said, her eyes clenched tight and her memory swirling around her like air, like him. "Right now, you are."

.o.O.o.

The next two weeks were a blur of boxes and goodbyes. Not just to her mother, but to so many of Clary's memories. Much of her childhood had been spent in her mother's studio, watching her paint and learning to do it herself. As the days went by and more and more boxes left the room above the garage, Clary felt each one like a stab to her own heart. Like a piece of her was being taped up and shipped away too.

Isabelle sat across from her in the window seat in Clary's bedroom, painting her toenails black while Clary stared at the orange moving truck. Men in black uniforms trekked back and forth from the external stairs to the truck, loading box after box after box. Clary had never realized how much art crap her mom really had. Simon stood against the wall beside Izzy, trying to hide the fact that he was watching her instead of what was going on outside. Clary ignored them both and tried to forget that the house still smelled like turkey from the Thanksgiving dinner her mother had prepared two days before. The last Thanksgiving they would ever have as a family.

It had been awkward and painful, no one speaking while they ate. The only good thing about the entire day was that Clary had awoken with no nausea whatsoever. For the next two days afterward, she'd had none either, though she was alternately starving and exhausted every second of every day still. But the absence of puke was so foreign she wasn't sure how to accept the fact that she could now enjoy breakfast again.

A loud bang and a slew of cursing sounded from outside, and Clary drew the curtain back a little more to see what was going on. One of the movers stood in the driveway behind the truck holding a box in his hands and the contents of it were strewn over the ground at his feet. Her mother had her hands in the air and was, undoubtedly, yelling about ruining her precious supplies or whatever. Her dark red hair was up in a loose knot at the back of her head, but long pieces were falling out and hanging at the sides of her face. Clary huffed and wrenched the curtain shut again.

Isabelle looked up, her hand poised with the nail polish wand over her toe. A knowing look came over her face. If anyone could relate it was Isabelle, since her parents had split a few years before. They'd talked at length about how much it sucked, and what Clary could expect for holidays and pretty much every other day. Unsurprisingly, none of it helped.

"You got plans with Lover Boy later?" Isabelle asked, her voice nonchalant, but quiet.

Simon fidgeted uncomfortably at the mention of Jace. Clary knew he understood she was seeing Jace, but she could tell it still bothered him some.

Clary shook her head. "He's out of town with his dad. They went to some relative's upstate for Thanksgiving." She picked at a loose thread on the hem of her sweatpants. She was so tired of sweats and yoga pants, but they were the only things that fit her. Not even any of the jeans Isabelle had let her borrow would button anymore. People at school had started to stare at her and her fashionably challenged state, but she had more important things to worry about than their wandering eyes.

"Too bad," Isabelle said as she busied herself with her toes once more. "You look like you could totally use some release." She glanced up and grinned. "If you know what I mean."

Simon groaned. "And, I'm gonna take that as my cue to leave."

"Si, you don't have to—" Clary began, but Simon cut her off with a shake of his head.

"I promised Rebecca we'd see a movie today anyway." His eyes flicked to Isabelle for a very short second, then back to Clary. "I need to go before she makes her way over here."

"Okay." Clary watched him go, and then glared at Isabelle. "You didn't have to do that, you know?"

"What?" Izzy asked.

"Say that in front of him. You know our friendship is sort of shaky still, so you don't have to rub the fact that I'm with someone else in his face every five seconds."

Isabelle rolled her eyes and replaced the cap on her nail polish. "Why not?" she said. "He's got to get over it sooner or later. He already knows you've got a new boyfriend, and he has to suspect things are physical. I mean, especially considering what he walked in on at the game. Plus, the boy's fine. You'd be crazy not to take advantage."

Clary shook her head. "It's not like that with us."

Isabelle laughed. "It's _always_ like that with guys. Jesus, Clary."

"Not us."

Isabelle stared at Clary for a moment before speaking. "Everyone, Clary. I mean, look at how you met? That boy banged you against a door pretty much the second he laid eyes on you. You think he doesn't want to do it again? And you, you don't even remember it. Don't you want to know what it's like?"

Clary shrugged, but felt her blood betray her by pooling into her cheeks. Because she did want to know what it was like. Lately it seemed to be all she could think about when she thought of Jace. It was starting to bother her a lot. Not that she didn't know, but that she couldn't stop thinking about him that way, like he was some sort of sex object or something. But she couldn't help it. She remembered how his hands had felt on her that night after the last game, how his mouth had tasted, and the look on his face after it was over. She wanted to feel that, to taste that, to look like that too. And she knew all she had to do was ask, Jace had told her that much. But the problem was: she didn't know what to ask _for_. She didn't know what she wanted let alone how to ask for it. All she knew was that her body was hot _all the time_. It wanted him _all the time_. And it was annoying as hell.

"See?" Isabelle said, smugly.

"Why are you acting like you're cool with all of this? It wasn't so long ago that you were threatening to chop off his junk if he even thought about touching me again."

"I've changed my mind," she said with the lift of one shoulder.

"Why?" Clary eyed her friend.

"Because I've seen you two together." Isabelle met her gaze. "I can see how he feels about you and how you feel about him. It's real and it's strong."

Clary looked away, embarrassment choking any words from coming out of her mouth.

"Besides," Isabelle continued. "You've got to be horny as hell."

"What?" Clary balked. "Why—why would you say that?" Her mind went through everything she had ever said to Isabelle in regards to sex, wondering if she'd let something slip, but there was nothing. She was very careful not to talk about it much with her friend. More so out of humiliation than anything else. It couldn't be normal to feel how she was feeling, like she wanted to rip of all his clothes with one swipe of her hand and jump on him. Her face heated at the thought. Oh, God, there was something seriously wrong with her.

"Because you're pregnant. It's normal to be horny when you're pregnant. You know, with all those hormones floating around and stuff." Isabelle paused at the look on Clary's face, one Clary was pretty sure was a mixture of mortification, horror, and the urge to vomit. "I read it in a book once."

"What the heck kind of book were you reading?"

"One of those pregnancy books my mom had from when she was having Max."

"And _why_ were you reading this?"

Isabelle shrugged. "I was curious and it was interesting. What?"

Clary blinked and chewed on her bottom lip. "Do you—do you still have this book?"

Isabelle grinned and reached into her bag, pulling out a thick book and handing it to Clary. Clary's eyes glossed over the cover, and then she opened the book. It went by weeks: One two, three, four, and so on all the way up to forty. She flipped through the pages. There were lists of symptoms, diagrams of a woman's uterus, and how big the baby would be inside. She turned several more pages until she reached week twelve, the week she'd just turned:

_Congratulations! You've now reached the end of your first trimester! This is a huge turning point for you and your pregnancy, as it marks not only the first third of your pregnancy being over, but also will likely be the end of many of the nastier pregnancy symptoms such as nausea, fatigue, and flatulence._

Clary flushed. Thankfully, flatulence had not been one of her problems.

_This week is also a big one for your baby! At 12 weeks, the task of developing new bodily structures is almost over as most of your baby's systems are fully formed. From now until about week 28, it will all be about those systems maturing, so your baby can live and breathe outside your womb._

Clary swallowed hard.

_Your baby weighs around a half an ounce now, and is about two and a half inches long! The digestive system is beginning to practice the digestive movement it will need after birth, and the pituitary gland at the base of the brain has started producing hormones. And the bone marrow is making white blood cells, which will one day help your baby fight infection._

The nausea that had abated a few days before returned. Clary skipped the rest of the information on the "fetus" and looked at the symptom list. And there it was: increase in sex drive. Along with: increased sense of smell, excess saliva (ew), fatigue, headaches, and . . . increased vaginal discharge! EW! So gross!

Clary snapped the book shut and shuddered.

Isabelle raised a brow. "What?"

"Nothing," Clary said, unwilling to even think about what she'd just read or meet Isabelle's questioning stare. "Nothing at all."

"Lemme see that." Isabelle frowned and snatched the book from Clary's hands. She flipped through the pages until she'd reached the section for twelve weeks. The creases in her forehead grew deeper and her face went paler. She closed the book slowly. "Well . . ."

"I don't have that," Clary said quickly.

"Uh . . . okay?" Isabelle eyed Clary. "But I was totally right about the super horniness."

"It didn't say 'super horniness' it said 'increased sex drive' which is kinda weird since I didn't really have one before . . ."

Isabelle gave her a look. "Obviously," she gestured to Clary's stomach, "you did."

"Shut up." Clary grabbed the book back from her friend, then threw it at her. Isabelle blocked the assault and picked the book back up and went to lob it at her friend, when Clary's cell phone rang. She frowned and rose from the window seat to get it. "Hello?" she said into the mouthpiece.

"Clarissa? Clarissa Morgenstern?" came an unfamiliar female voice from the other end.

"Yeah?"

"This is Nurse Blackburn from Dr. Penahallow's office."

Isabelle looked at her questioningly. Clary shrugged. "Oh, hi."

"I'm calling in regards to your appointment on Monday. The doctor has been called to a last minute conference, beginning Monday, and was wondering if you'd be available today?"

"Oh, well, I . . ." Clary wasn't doing anything but sitting there moping about her mother, but Jace wasn't around. It wasn't like he'd been planning to go—she hadn't even told him about the appointment, but was planning on it when he got back later the next day. "My boy—I mean, the father isn't here, so I . . ."

"Well, we could reschedule for later in the week—"

"No," Clary said with a sigh as she rubbed her forehead. Monday was the only afternoon she'd had free all week. "It's all right. I can come today. What time?"

"Can you be here in twenty minutes?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'll be there."

Clary said goodbye, hung up the phone, and leaned against the wall. She pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes. How the heck was she supposed to get out of the house with her mother and all these men around without Jocelyn needing to know where she was going?

"What was that all about?" Isabelle asked.

Clary glanced up and realized the answer was right in front of her. Isabelle was the best story-teller she knew. She grinned. "I need your help with something."

.o.O.o.

Jace sat at the table, surrounded by his father and a group of his old uptight college buddies. The waitress had just left, her eyes lingering on Jace a bit longer than anyone else, and now he sat there, fidgeting uncomfortably in his suit pants. A few days earlier they'd been upstate with his mom's family for Thanksgiving, but now they were in the city for "lunch" with a bunch of middle-aged men reliving their glory days. Jace thought it was a bit sad. Not just that they were having "lunch" in a damn suit and tie type restaurant (which he was not at all happy about, considering his feelings about ties) but that none of them seemed to understand that they were old and couldn't play football worth a damn anymore. They also didn't seem to get that no one else gave a shit.

Jace hoped he was never so God-damn pathetic.

The man next to him turned and said, "So, your father tells us you'll be attending SEU and taking the starting quarterback position next fall. Excited?"

Jace looked at the man. He wore a faded gray suit jacket with patches on the elbows and had a comb-over. "I haven't actually made it official."

"But he will," his father cut in, his glass raised and a smile on his face. Jace couldn't remember the last time he'd seen his father so pleased. He wished he could feel just as good about it all. "As soon as we get home we'll sign all the paperwork."

Jace gave a weak half smile and stared out the window to his left. He'd purposefully stalled signing on the dotted line with SEU. He wasn't exactly sure why either. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that he had yet to tell Clary—not wanting to give her anything else to think about at the moment. These last two weeks had been hard enough on her, and she already felt like everything in her life was going to shit. Jace didn't want to add to that, not only by leaving, but also by stealing her brother's spot on the team. He kind of felt like an asshole about that, actually.

"We're ecstatic about it!" Jace heard his father say. "This has been our dream since he started to play in Pee Wee."

It was funny how his father kept calling it "their dream," like they were both going, like they were both playing. Maybe in his father's eyes they were. Jace knew how much his father had done for him, and while it hadn't always been fun, it had always made him strive to be better, faster, stronger. His father had made him who he was. And that was partially why this was so messed up. On one hand Jace wanted this, had wanted it for as long as he could remember. He'd worked so damn hard for so damn long, had gone through so much shit and so much disappointment to get right where he was today. But on the other hand, he didn't want to be just another notch on Clary's disappointment post. He wanted to be the one person she could count on to keep his word.

Jace had promised he wouldn't leave, and at the time he hadn't been thinking about school. He hadn't been thinking about anything but her. What the hell was he supposed to do with all this shit? How was he supposed to go away to school and play football when she needed him, when his kid would need him? He didn't know which direction was up or down or left or right. All he knew was he was stuck in the middle of all this shit with no working compass.

"Jace? Did you hear what I said?" his father asked.

He glanced up and shook his head. "Sorry. What?"

His father repeated the question and Jace answered with the best blasé response he could think of. It was getting harder and harder to put this off. He needed to talk to Clary, needed to tell her what was happening and find out what she thought about it all. But what if she thought he was backing out on his promise to her? What if she thought he wanted this more than her? _Did _he want this more than her? Hell, he was so damn confused.

Jace glanced around the table at the men seated around him. This, what he had, was what all these men had wanted. A shot. Recognition. Fame. Hadn't they worked just as hard? Hadn't they wanted it just as much? Maybe even more? And here he had it, and he didn't even know if he wanted it, if he should want it.

His thumb brushed over the screen of his phone. Frowning, he looked down. Jace hadn't even known he was holding it. He wanted to talk to Clary, to hear her voice, to have her tell him it was all right to feel conflicted, but he was stuck at this shitty restaurant, with a waitress who was currently brushing her boobs against his arm while setting their drinks on the table. He scooted his chair over an inch or so, under the guise that he was giving her more space, but the way her shoulders stiffened let Jace knew that she knew exactly what he was doing. Her mouth puckered slightly and she drew away from the table with a flip of her hair.

The man next to Jace chuckled and elbowed him in the arm. "Looks like someone seems a bit put off by your lack of attention. Better hope she doesn't spit in your food."

Jace wanted to reply with something biting and witty, but he just shrugged. It wasn't worth the shit storm he'd create with his dad to tell the douchebag next to him to shove it up his ass. His father gave Jace a strange look. Jace threw down his napkin and rose to his feet.

"I need some air," he mumbled and turned toward the front of the building.

Once outside, he breathed in the smell of the city: exhaust, smoke, and the tinge of dirty water. The streets were crowded with people in suits and dresses, umbrellas over their heads even though it didn't really look like rain. No one spared a glance at him as he passed, and he almost sort of liked it. The anonymity. He looked at the hand in which he held his phone again and pressed the on button. It lit up and he found he had a message from Clary. When had he missed that? He pulled it up.

_**I wish you were here.**_ Was all it said. But the words, as simple and as few as they were, still made his heart race.

_Me too._ He typed back. _How are things today? _Jace knew Clary's mother was leaving today and it made him feel like a complete ass that he wasn't there, that he couldn't be there.

Her reply came quickly. _**Things suck. Like usual. But at least I'm out of the house.**_

_Things suck here too. I'm surrounded by a bunch of my father's asshole college buddies. Where are you?_

_ **I'm at the doctor's.**_

Jace felt his chest squeeze and he immediately punched in her number, pressing the phone to his ear. She wasn't supposed to have a doctor's appointment that he knew of. Was she hurt? Had something happened to the baby? She answered after the second ring.

"What's wrong? Are you okay?" he asked, his voice rough, his throat tightening up around the words.

Clary laughed. "Nothing's wrong. Dr. Penhallow was going to be gone during my scheduled appointment this week, so they called and asked if I could come in today instead. The nurse just got done with me."

"Oh." He let out a relieved breath. "Shit, Clary. You didn't tell me you had an appointment this week."

"I was going to when you got back," she said. "I just . . . wasn't really thinking about it much. I'm sorry, I should have—"

"No, it's all right." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I'm just glad you're okay." He paused. "You are, right?"

"Yeah. I'm okay."

"Are you there alone?" he asked, for some reason feeling like a huge asshole about the fact that she probably was. She shouldn't have to do any of this alone.

"No. Izzy brought me, but she's in the waiting room—so I guess, technically, I am alone."

Jace closed his eyes and turned, resting his forehead against the cool bricks of the building. "You shouldn't be there alone." _I should be with you._

"Well," Clary's voice was soft, quiet. "Now I'm not."

He was confused for a moment, and then he understood what she meant. She was no longer alone, because she was with him, even though he was actually an hour away. And suddenly, he wanted to be there so badly it hurt. It had been a week since he'd seen her, two since he'd really kissed her. They'd snuck in a few small meetings here and there, but with everything that was happening with her mom and his dad hovering over him every damn second, they were always brief. And they were never enough.

"Jace?" she said.

"Yeah?"

"Where did you go?"

He sighed. "Nowhere. I'm still here."

"You're so quiet. Is your dad right there? Do you need to go?" There was a tinge of disappointment to her questions.

"No. I don't need to go. I was just thinking."

"What about?"

"You," he said. "I'm always thinking about you. I miss you, Clary. I'm so tired of this shit, you know? I just want this to be normal. I want to be able to see and talk to you when I want to." He clutched the phone tighter and spoke quieter. "And when I want to kiss you, I want to drive over to your God-damn house and kiss you. I don't want to hide and pretend and just take these little snippets as they come. I want you, all of you, all the time."

"I want that too," she said. "I want—oh, the doctor's here . . ."

Jace could hear the doctor's murmured voice on the other end, but couldn't make out what she was saying. Clary let out a nervous laugh, and there was a crinkle of paper.

"Clary," he said. "Clary, I should let you go—"

"No," her voice came back, louder in his ear, "no, please. Just . . . can you stay? I—I want you to stay."

He glanced through the window at his father, and found him still staying amused with his friends. And he was glad, because there was nowhere else he'd rather be. "Yeah. Yeah, I can stay."

"Okay." The relief in her voice made Jace want to hop on the next bus out of the city and get back home. He couldn't shake the feeling that he should be there. He _should_ be there with her.

Jace pushed away from the wall and paced in front of the restaurant. He didn't give a shit if he was in people's way, and ignored the irate looks being thrown at him whenever he bumped into them. They could just go the hell around! On the other end of the line, he could hear Clary talking to Dr. Penhallow, asking questions and listening to responses.

". . . and it was just like that one day. Is it supposed to stick out that much already?"

It took Jace several seconds to figure out she was talking about her stomach and not something disgusting. He frowned as he thought back to the last time he saw her. He hadn't noticed her stomach sticking out at all.

"Jace?" Clary spoke to him again. "She's going to listen to the heartbeat now. Do you—do you want to hear?" The nervousness was back in her voice, and again, Jace wished he was there with her. This was such shit, the whole thing. God, he hated this so much.

"Yeah. Yeah, I want to hear."

"Okay. I'm gonna put you on speaker."

Jace heard some rustling, and then the tinny echo that let him know everyone in the room would be able to hear him if he spoke. His heart skipped then, just a couple of beats, but it was enough to be noticeable.

"Hello, Jace," Dr. Pehnallow said. "Have you had a nice holiday?" Her voice was jovial, as always. Sometimes her cheerfulness grated on his nerves.

"Uh, yeah. It's been fine."

"Good, good," she said, distractedly. There was a squirting sound, and then a hiss from Clary. "Sorry, dear, I know it's cold."

Clary giggled nervously again. Jace lifted his thumb to his mouth and started biting on his nail. Several passersby looked at him now, but he ignored them. He wasn't on that sidewalk anymore anyway, he was in that room with her, surrounded by the disgusting uterus posters and models.

"Okay, here we go," said the doctor.

Jace clutched his phone tight to his ear and tried to control his breathing. The last thing he wanted was to sound like some mouth-breathing pervert when he was on speaker. There was a lot of static, and the sound like someone was tapping the end of a microphone. And then it turned into a steady rhythm, a sort of clomp, clomp, clomp, like horses hooves.

"There we are," said Dr. Penhallow, pleased.

Jace felt his breath catch as he listened to the strange sound. He couldn't quite describe the feeling that came over him. It wasn't joy like the pamphlets said most expectant parents felt (yes, he'd read them) when they heard their baby's heartbeat for the first time. It was a sick, nauseous feeling. A fearful feeling. Fear of all the responsibilities that were coming at him so fast. Fear for what was going to happen to both of them because of all this. Fear over what this was doing to Clary. And then there was something else, something creeping into every space and hidden crevice inside him. This something wasn't fear at all, it was something stronger, something more.

"That's it?" Clary asked. "It's so fast." She sounded . . . amazed?

"One hundred and forty beats per minute. Very good. Very strong."

Good. Strong. His child's heart was good and strong. Jace listened for the next several seconds, until the sound disappeared. He swallowed hard against the feeling that was still building, still rising, nearly choking him.

"Jace?" Clary said. "Are you still there?"

The echo sound was gone, so he knew she'd taken him off speaker. Which was probably good, because with what was happening to him, with the way his own heart was racing in his chest, he wasn't sure he could control his mouth.

"I'm still here."

"You're quiet again."

"I know. I'm sorry." And he was. But there was so much going on in his head: going away to school, the baby, this strangeness taking over his whole being, that Jace couldn't keep his thoughts straight. He was afraid something was going to slip and this was not how he wanted to say any of it. He knew he needed to tell her about the scholarship, about SEU, about everything, but he didn't know how, didn't know anything.

"Are you all right?" she asked, and her tone was worried, caring.

"No," he whispered, the truth slipping out through the tightening in his throat. "I don't think I am."

"What's wrong?" she threw his previous question back at him. "Are you freaking out? Because I'm totally freaking out. It's okay if you're freaking out—"

"I'm not freaking out. I just . . ." Shit. He couldn't say this stuff over the phone. The need to say it all, to tell her everything was so overwhelming, he had to bite his own tongue to stop himself. "I need to go."

"Jace, don't go. Tell me what's wrong. Please, _please_ talk to me—"

"Baby," he said, his voice only a breath. Clary quieted immediately at the endearment. His eyes closed and his forehead pressed once more against the brick wall. It was taking everything he had to keep all the words inside his mouth. "I promise you nothing's wrong. I just . . . I need to see you. Can I see you later?"

"But I thought you weren't supposed to be back until tomorrow?"

"I can't wait. I need to see you now. If I give you an address to meet me at tonight, will you come?"

Jace waited for her reply, his hand twisting harder around the phone. He didn't have to wait long.

"Okay. Tell me where to go."

.o.O.o.

Clary stood in front of the address Jace had provided, her mouth agape and her eyes wide. _This can't be right_, she thought to herself. He'd told her the place where they were meeting was a house, but this wasn't a _house_, this was a mansion. A huge, huge, huge one at that! She glanced back down at the note she'd made in her phone and back at the house number on the gate. They were the same.

"Okay," she said to herself, pushing her phone back into her pocket. "I guess this is it."

After entering the code Jace had given her on the keypad next to the huge wrought iron gate, she walked down the stone drive toward the front door. Tall, green hedges lined either side and blocked her view of anything but the driveway and the night sky. Toward the end, the bushes opened up into a circular drive, a large stone fountain sitting on a grassy island in the center. She stared up at it, at once realizing that it was identical to the cupid statue in the garden near the river. Frowning, she stepped around it and saw the stairs that led to the large wooden door at the front of the house.

She couldn't help but let her eyes wander around the place as she climbed the steps. She had never been anywhere like this before, had never even seen a place like this up close. Everything was made of white stone, the steps, the columns, the fleur-de-lis carvings at each corner of the doorway and the top of the pillars. Ivy climbed one of the front facing walls, covering the entire thing with entwined vines. It was absolutely gorgeous, something she would love to draw, something her mother would love to paint . . .

Clary immediately felt underdressed, even just being on the stairs to this place. She'd managed to change into a pair of black leggings and a cute white empire-wasted shirt-dress, but this place demanded more, more than Clary could ever hope to have. She felt the fleeting urge to turn around, to not stain the perfectness of this place with her lowly self, when the front door opened, the square of light from inside stretching across the steps in front of her.

Slowly, Clary looked up. "Hi," she said to the familiar figure in the doorway.

Jace stood there in just a pair of low slung jeans and a plain white t-shirt. His hair was a mess, like always, just like that morning she'd woken up next to him. But somehow, even though he was dressed no different than her, no better, he looked like he belonged there, whereas she was sure she looked like a piece of riff raff that had flown in on the wind.

"Hi," he responded, his voice low, quiet, and his hand clutching the frame of the doorway. He did not smile, but he didn't frown either. There was something about the look in his eyes, though. Something that made Clary's heart skip.

"Is this your house?" she asked as she made her way up the rest of the stairs. "You never told me you were rich."

This time he did smile, but it was small, almost embarrassed. "I'm not rich. I'm eighteen, remember?"

"But this is your house, right? We're not, like, breaking and entering or anything?" She glanced around nervously.

Jace chuckled. "Yes, it's my house. Or, well, it's where I live. It was my mother's family's home."

Clary couldn't stop studying the building. Everywhere she looked she noticed something else, some small detail that just made it even more impressive. "Wow," she whispered. "It's . . . beautiful."

"Is it?" Jace asked, his voice so quiet Clary had to turn to look at him. He was staring at her, his eyes not moving from her face. "I hadn't noticed."

Her cheeks blossomed with heat.

"Are you just going to stand there, or are you going to come here?"

Clary was very aware of the words he'd chosen: _come here_, not come in. She shivered. "I would really love to come over there, but I don't think I can move." Her legs felt like they were stuck in a vat of drying cement. "I think I might possibly be in shock."

Jace crossed the threshold and stepped in front of her. He seemed so much taller than usual in the frame of light behind him. Clary wanted to touch him, but for some reason he seemed unreachable, like she could try but her hand would just pass right through him. He must have seen the uncertainty on her face, because he frowned. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she said. "It's stupid. I just . . ." With her heart pounding in her chest, she stepped forward and placed her hands on his waist, then laid her head on his chest. He was real and solid against her. She sighed and let her arms slip around to his back, fitting her body up against him.

His arms went around her, and his lips touched the top of her head. "You just what?" he asked.

"I just needed this, I think." She closed her eyes and breathed him in. "It's been such a crappy two weeks and I've missed you, and I just needed this. I needed you."

Clary felt Jace stiffen in her arms, and she was reminded of their phone call, of the way he'd sounded when they'd hung up. She slowly pulled away and looked up at him. He had his head down and his eyes fixed to something off to the side. She swallowed against the unease crowding her throat.

"What's wrong?" she asked him, her voice nothing more than a whisper.

She watched his throat move as he swallowed. He still didn't look at her. "I have to tell you something," he said.

"What?" she asked, still whispering. She was afraid maybe she'd lost her voice for good.

Jace closed his eyes briefly, then opened them, settling them on her finally. "I . . ." he said, but didn't finish.

"What?" she urged again. "Jace, you're starting to freak me out."

"I'm sorry," he said. "I don't mean to . . . maybe it's better if I just show you." He held out his hand.

Clary hesitated.

"No one else is here," Jace said, wrongly assuming she was hesitating out of fear of being found out. That wasn't it at all. She was afraid of whatever had him so upset. "My father's still in the city. It's just us." He touched her hand with the tips of his fingers. "Please."

She nodded, pushing aside the nerves, the fear, and let him take her hand and lead her inside. The door closed behind them, and she was so nervous she couldn't even bring herself to study her surroundings. Part of her realized there was a lot of wood and marble and large, dark curtains, but the only thing she could concentrate on was Jace's back. How the muscles underneath his shirt seemed tense and strained. What was wrong? What did he have to tell her?

Silence engulfed them as he led her up two flights of mahogany stairs, passing painted portraits and landscapes along the way. At the top of the stairs was a large grandfather clock that looked like it had been carved into the wall. The large brass pendulums on the bottom swung back and forth, the loud tick, tick, tick, was the only sound she heard—besides the beat of her own heart. Jace turned down the hall and passed several doors before he stopped in front of one that was open. He motioned for her to enter with a sweep of his hand, and Clary stepped inside.

The room was plain, nothing decorating the walls or shelves, except a few books. There was a bed in the center, covered by a white bedspread, a small wooden desk, and a dresser. The only indication that this was Jace's room was the sports bag she'd seen him carry tossed in the corner. It occurred to her that she should feel weird about being alone with him in his room, but she didn't.

At the click of the door closing behind her, she turned and met Jace's gaze. He looked strange, so distant in the low light coming from the bedside lamp. She stepped toward him, only stopping when she stood right in front of him. Lifting a hand, she placed it on his chest right over his heart. It was racing. His breath caught and his head dropped.

"Jace?" she said.

He shook his head, closed his eyes, and then Clary felt him move. Just slightly. Just enough. His hands came up and clutched her face, bringing her mouth to his so hard it almost hurt. "Clary . . ." he said, his voice strained and almost frantic sounding through his kiss. It was hard, bruising hard, and so full of the same desperation she'd heard in his voice.

She reached up and held his face too, removing her lips from his and resting her forehead against his. "Jace," her lips brushed his cheeks, his nose, his chin, "what's this about? What's wrong?"

Jace dropped his hands and breathed out, almost as if in defeat. He kissed her again, once, twice, but these were smaller, softer, sadder. And then he nodded and pulled back, walking around her and to the small desk. Clary turned and watched him as he pulled open the drawer and took an envelope from inside. He paused there for a moment, his shoulders rising and falling as he stared down at the letter in his hand, then he turned and held it out to her.

"What's this?" Her eyes met his, and she could see the uncertainty pouring out of him.

"Just read it," he said.

Slowly, she reached out and took the envelope from him. A relieved breath left his lips as it slipped from his fingers. Clary's chest hurt with how hard her heart was beating against her ribs, and she turned toward the only light on in the room. She sat carefully on the edge of the bed, and with one last tentative look at Jace—who stood still and stiff on the other side of the room—she slipped the letter from inside. The parchment was thick, expensive, and her fingers shook as she unfolded it. SEU's university seal adorned the top, but her eyes skipped over that and went straight to the script below.

_Dear Mr. Wayland,_

_It is our pleasure to offer our congratulations on your full sports scholarship to South East University . . ._

Clary's eyes raced over the words, widening as she read. She lifted her hand to cover her mouth. "Jace . . ."

From the corner of her vision, she saw all the stiffness leave him and his body deflate as if he were a balloon. He crossed the room and knelt at her feet. She could feel his eyes on her, but she didn't look at him. The words of the letter were spinning in front of her: scholarship, SEU, congratulations, football, quarterback. She closed her eyes to try to stop the barrage.

"Clary," his voice cracked, "I'm sorry. I—"

"You're sorry?" She opened her eyes and focused on his face. His brows were drawn together, his eyes dark. She could see the fear, the worry. "Why are you sorry?"

His gaze darted to the letter and back to her face. "Because I . . . because . . ." He paused. "Did you read that?"

"Yes. You saw me read it."

He seemed even more confused. "You're not—you're not upset?"

"Why would I be upset?" She looked down at the letter then back up at him. "This is amazing. It's what you wanted, isn't it?"

Jace stared at her, his expression unreadable. "Yes. It's what I wanted."

"Then why do you seem so unhappy?"

"Clary," he said, "that's your brother's spot."

Clary frowned and glanced back down at the letter. "Oh . . ."

"And . . . and SEU's three hours away. I—I promised you . . . I promised you I wouldn't leave."

"Oh," she said again, and then she snapped her head up, realizing finally what he was saying. "Oh, Jace, no."

"I don't know what to do, Clary. My dad is expecting me to sign now, but . . . but I don't know . . ."

"What do you mean you don't know?" Clary dropped the letter on the bed and reached out to hold his face in her hands. "Of course you know. This is your dream. This is what you've worked so hard for. How can you not know?"

"But you're having a baby. We're having a baby. And I promised, Clary. I promised . . ."

"God, Jace, I never thought that meant you'd give up your dream. I never thought . . . You can't give this up for me. For this. You've worked so hard for so long. This is a once in a lifetime chance. You're so talented. You're so _good_. You know that. You're so—"

"I'm so in love with you," he whispered.

The rest of Clary's words caught in her throat and her heart stopped. Jace's eyes were on hers, unwavering, so open, so clear, but there was also an uncertainty lurking underneath, as if he was afraid she wouldn't like him saying that. "You love me?" she said, the words barely making a sound as they crossed her lips.

He nodded and reached up to touch her face, his fingers running the length of her cheekbone. "And I don't want to disappoint you. I said I wouldn't leave and I don't want to go back on my promise by doing that."

She slipped her hands back into his hair. "You love me," she said again, almost as if she needed to repeat the words to make them real in her mind. For some reason, she couldn't comprehend it, couldn't seem to accept it, couldn't believe it.

Jace raised his other hand and cupped her face between them, holding her tight and secure in his grasp. "I love you." The words were strong, solid, but still so soft.

Her eyes stung and she closed them, feeling the wetness she didn't know was there roll over her cheeks. She remembered the feeling she'd had when they first started talking, the feeling like this thing with him could be so big, so huge, so all consuming that if she let herself, she would drown in it. She could feel the waves of it surrounding her, crashing into her, wanting her to just go under already. They were so cold and so scary, but also so inviting, so pure. She wanted to give in to it, wanted to believe, but she needed it just one more time. Once more. "You love me," she breathed.

Jace was right in front of her now. She could feel the heat of him, his chest against her chest, his palms against her cheeks, his breath on her lips. "I love you," he promised against her mouth.

And then she was under it all: the fear, the uncertainty, the passion. It was covering her, drowning her, and it was better than anything she'd ever felt before. Her arms twisted around his neck and his around her back, their hearts pounding together through the thin fabric of their shirts. It felt so right, so, so right to be there with him, to hear those words and accept them as infinite truth, to give in to everything she'd been afraid to feel for so long. And as he kissed her, she whispered the promise back to him, again and again and again against his mouth, his ears, his heart, his lips swallowing every single one.

* * *

><p>Thank you to LLWB for beta'ing, as always.<p>

And thank you to all of you who are reading and reviewing. I'm sorry that I haven't been able to respond to them all, but please know that I appreciate them all so much, and really enjoy hearing your thoughts.

I hope this chapter was good for y'all. I'm not a fan of repeated declarations of love myself, but in this case, I really think Clary needed to hear it. And Jace, being as perceptive as he is when it comes to her, seemed to know she did.

Until next time, XOXO ~ddpjclaf


	16. Ask Me to Stay

****The character names of The Mortal Instruments are owned by Cassandra Clare. The original content, ideas and intellectual property of this story are owned by ddpjclaf, 2011. Please do not copy, reproduce, or translate without express written permission.****

* * *

><p>Chapter Sixteen - "Ask Me to Stay"<p>

****CONTENT WARNING** For those who like a warning, this chapter earns it's M rating.**

_Thank you LLWB for your time in editing (and your EeEeEeps). *love*_

_Chapter Songs:_

_**Iridescent – Linkin Park_

_**Naked – Avril Lavigne_

_**Elsewhere – Sarah McLachlan_

* * *

><p>Jace turned the pen over and over in his hand as he stared down at the scholarship acceptance documents in front of him. He'd touched the pen to the paper several times, leaving behind a black dot where the J of his first name should begin, but couldn't bring himself to sign. He thrust his hand into his hair and let out a slow breath, before lowering his left hand once more. Still, he couldn't do it.<p>

Dropping the pen to the desk he scrubbed his hands over his face. What the hell was he doing? Why couldn't he sign the God-damn paper? This was what he wanted. Him. Not his dad, him. This was all he'd thought about since he made the varsity team in ninth grade—maybe even before that. This was what he'd killed himself practicing for. SEU was the largest, best university in the state. It would afford him so many opportunities after he finished his college stint, both in a possible football career and in an outstanding education. So why couldn't he sign?

A soft sigh and a rustling came from behind him. Jace turned and peered at the small figure sleeping on his bed. After they'd talked earlier, Clary had seemed so drained, so exhausted, she'd fallen asleep almost immediately. As much as he'd wanted to be with her, to hold her and kiss her and talk to her, he knew she needed rest more.

Jace turned around and looked at the papers again. They stared back at him, their congratulatory tone screaming at him to just sign already. No, not yet. He pushed them away and stood from the desk. Turning, he fixed his gaze on Clary. He'd always been amazed at how little she was, how delicate and fragile she looked, but he knew better than anyone how strong she really was. He'd been certain, _certain_, she would freak at his news about the scholarship, that she would think he was going back on his word and leaving her like everyone else. But she did the exact opposite. And he had to admit, it hadn't made him as happy as he'd thought it would. It just made him more confused.

What the hell was wrong with him?

He crossed the room and stood for a moment at the edge of the bed. Clary lay all the way to the left side, facing the center. One of her hands was tucked under the edge of the pillow and the other lay draped over her side, the tips of her fingers brushing her stomach. Jace lowered himself slowly to the mattress and stretched out beside her. His face was only inches from hers. Her eyes shifted beneath her lids as she dreamed, and a piece of hair fell across her face. Jace lifted a hand and brushed the hair out of the way, tucking the strand behind her ear. His fingers lingered for a second then moved down the edge of her face, her neck, over her shoulder, and followed her arm to where her hand lay on her stomach. He rested his on top of hers, letting the warmth of her soak into his cool skin. With a sigh, he went to move his hand away but paused when he felt the small, firm bump under his fingers. His brows drew together, and carefully, he spread his hand over the expanse of her abdomen. It was the strangest sensation, feeling this thing he couldn't see and knowing he was the one that put it there. It was also the most frustrating thing that he couldn't remember doing it.

Jace closed his eyes and tried to remember, but it was black, like someone had just gone in and spray painted all over his memory.

"It feels weird, doesn't it?" Clary said.

Jace's eyes flew open, and he was met with green. Still sleepy, but more rested green. "What does?" he asked.

"My stomach. Like there's a baseball stuck in there or something."

Jace glanced down at his hand, having forgotten he'd still had it there. He pulled it away quickly, not wanting to seem like a dick. "Oh, uh, I don't know. I guess it's a little weird." When he looked back up, Clary was staring at him, her gaze thoughtful. "What?"

"Does it gross you out?"

"Your stomach?" She nodded. "No. Why would you think that?"

She shrugged. "Because you pulled your hand away from it like it had burned you, that's all. And I read in this book Izzy gave me that some guys are kind of freaked out by it."

Jace frowned. "I'm not freaked out by it. I just don't want you to think I'm some pervert who gets off on touching you while you're asleep."

"I don't think you're a pervert—at least not for that." She grinned and then let it slowly fade. "You weren't doing anything wrong, you know. You're allowed to touch me, Jace."

"Sometimes it feels wrong, though. Like I shouldn't be allowed to touch you like this." He ran his hand up her arm and felt goosebumps rise on her skin. "Like I shouldn't be able to lie here with you like this." He scooted in just a little, until his knees knocked hers. "Like I shouldn't want you like this."

Clary's eyes grew wide. "Want me like what?" Jace smiled, and Clary shook her head. "Never mind. I know what you're going to say."

"What am I going to say?"

"That I shouldn't ask that question if I don't want a perverted answer."

Jace laughed. "How well you know me."

He expected her to laugh or at least smile in return, but she didn't. She frowned and lowered her gaze.

"What?" he asked.

She raised her eyes to his once more. "Do you really think it's wrong for you to touch me? To want me?"

"No. Of course I don't. I was . . . I was kidding."

"No, you weren't," she said.

Jace couldn't lie and tell her she was wrong. He let out a sigh instead. "No, I wasn't, but I didn't mean it how you think I did."

"How did you mean it, then?"

"You know how I meant it, Clary." Jace touched the hair falling over her shoulder, rolling the soft strands between his fingers. He couldn't seem to stop touching her, her hair, her skin, anything. "You know how I feel about everything that happened between us. How I feel about what I did. It's hard for me to feel like I _deserve_ this. Like I deserve you."

"I know." She closed her eyes. "But are you ever going to touch me again?"

"I have. Lots of times." He cupped his hand over her shoulder and ran it up to her neck. "I'm touching you right now."

"Not like that." She opened her eyes. "I mean really touch me. Without reservation. Without scolding yourself for wanting more. Just touching me because you want to touch me, need to touch me. Because, Jace, sometimes I want and need you to touch me too."

"Clary." Jace's voice cracked on her name and he cleared his throat. "What are we talking about here?"

"I—" She grimaced and turned away from him, flopping onto her back and staring up at the ceiling. "I—I don't really know."

Jace raised himself on his elbow and peered down at her. "Does this have to do with . . . with sex? Or am I being a presumptuous ass and reading into what you're saying?"

She inhaled, puffed out her cheeks, and exhaled loudly. "You're not reading anything into anything."

Jace blinked. "I told you to tell me when you were ready and I would do whatever you wanted. We can go at whatever pace you need."

"I know but . . ." She lifted her hands to cover her face. Her voice was muffled when she answered. "But maybe I don't really know what pace that is."

"Well, that's an even better reason for us not to rush. I want you to be sure. I want you to want—"

Her hands flew away from her face and slammed down on the mattress to her sides. "That's just it; I don't _know_ what I want. I have all these . . . feelings . . . and I have no idea what to make of any of them. I don't know if it's simply because I want you or if it's all these . . . these . . ." her hands flailed in front of her stomach, "hormones or whatever."

"Hormones?"

"Yes," she said. "Apparently when you're pregnant you turn into a great big horny slut."

Jace laughed a little, not quite sure how to respond to that.

She turned her face toward him, and it was not amused. It actually looked . . . pained. "It's not funny. I'm really confused." She rolled back over onto her side. "I think about it all the time. What it would be like. How it would feel. Would it hurt the second time? Would I be nervous or excited? I can't stop thinking about it. And it's making me so . . ." She was so flustered her cheeks were tinged with blood. "I don't know, but I don't want to do it again just because of stupid pregnancy hormones. I want it to be because I can't stand not being with you for another second."

Jace couldn't breathe. "Is there a difference?"

"I don't know. I don't know anything because I'm not very experienced in all this stuff. I've never felt like this before, so I can't tell what's real and what's hormone induced. That's why I wish you'd touch me. Not because I tell you I want you to, but because _you_ want to, because you can't stand not touching me any longer, either. I keep thinking maybe if your feelings are genuine, then mine might be too." She leaned in, closed her eyes, and rested her forehead against his. "That sounds stupid, doesn't it?"

"No." He let his fingers trail down her neck and trace her collarbone. "No, it doesn't sound stupid at all. I think I get it. But, Clary, I don't know how to tell the difference either. If it helps at all, there isn't a second that goes by that I don't want you, that I couldn't be classified as a 'great big horny slut' myself—and I don't even have the luxury of blaming it on pregnancy. But I . . ."

"But you what?"

Jace exhaled slowly. "But I'm nervous too."

"Why?" Clary pulled back and furrowed her brows. "You've—done it before. We've done it before . . ."

"But I don't remember being with you, and this isn't the same as before. We're not the same." He studied her face and tried to put his feelings into words, but it was difficult when she was looking at him like that: eyes wide, curious, innocent. "For all intents and purposes, you're a virgin. You don't remember anything about what happened that night, either, and so all of this is new for you and . . . and that makes me nervous. I don't know what it would be like for you, what it would feel like, or if it would hurt the second time. And, God, I don't _want_ to hurt you again."

"But you do . . . you do . . . want to, right?"

Jace felt his heart quicken and his body tighten at the question. How could she not know? "Yes," he whispered, because it was the God-damn truth. He wanted her like he'd never wanted anyone before. "Yes, of course I want to. I want to so much sometimes it's painful. But what I want has never been the issue."

"I know," she said. "And I'm so sorry I'm so wishy-washy about everything. I just—"

Jace pressed his finger to her mouth. "Don't apologize to me for that. As much as I want it, I don't want it like that. I don't want it when you're not sure. Promise me something, okay?"

She frowned but nodded. "Okay."

"Promise me you won't let me until you're sure."

"Jace . . ."

"Promise me, Clary. I don't want to feel like this again," he said. "Like I'm stealing something. I need to know it's what you want. I need that, okay? Please. Promise me you'll stop it if you're not ready."

"Okay." She reached up and pushed aside a lock of hair that had fallen into his eyes. "Okay, I promise. But only if you promise you'll stop being so reserved about touching me."

Jace started to pull back, but she held him in place.

"You promise me now," she said. "The only way this can work is if we're both honest about what we need from each other—and not just when we need less, but also when we need more. This isn't just about what I need and want, Jace. It's about you too. Okay?"

Jace leaned in and kissed her once, very softly, on the lips. "Okay," he said.

"Say you promise," she whispered.

"I promise."

Clary smiled and scooted closer, closing the distance between them and aligning their bodies on the bed. Their legs tangled together, and her hips fit perfectly in the space between his. All of her fit perfectly with him. She placed one of her hands on the side of his face and kissed him gently. And even though there was no space between them and they'd just finished discussing whether or not they wanted to have sex, the moment didn't feel sexual, didn't feel lustful. It was nice and sweet, easy and calming. Jace cradled her body against his, carefully, in a way he hoped told her that this moment wasn't about anything but this, that he wasn't expecting it to become more. She seemed to understand, because she didn't touch him more than the soft strokes of her fingers across his cheeks, didn't kiss him deeper than just the slightest sweep of her tongue against his.

Clary moved back after a minute, keeping her face still within kissing distance but not leaning in to take his lips again. She kept her fingers moving, threading them through the hair behind his ear and twisting the curls around and around and around.

"You have awesome hair," she said, almost like she'd spoken unknowingly, her voice soft and dreamy. "I hope our kid has your hair."

Jace's breath caught in his throat. That was the first time she'd ever really said anything like that. The first time she'd talked about their kid like it was . . . like it was _theirs_.

Clary brought her hands forward and slipped them over his face, her touch so soft, so careful. "And your eyes." Her thumbs brushed underneath his lids, then moved down, stopping at the corner of his mouth. "And your mouth. I love your mouth."

The calm and sweet feelings left as quickly as they'd come, burning up in the heat that danced over his skin. Jace pulled her hands away from his face and pushed her onto her back, his body settling on top of hers, the weight of him pressing her into the soft mattress. His elbows rested to either side of her head and her hair splayed out around them like soft licks of fire against his white comforter. He'd thought about this moment so many times in the past weeks, what it would be like to have her here, in his house, in his bed. She looked so good underneath him, felt so good, fit so right, that he was certain no one else on earth would ever be as perfect for him as she was. She stared up at him, eyes gleaming and dark, one side of her bottom lip caught between her teeth. God, that look, those eyes, that lip. He could feel the want boiling in his veins. But still, he hesitated, even though she'd said she didn't want him to. Doubt and shame crept into his mind. "Clary . . .?" Her name was broken, choked.

"Shh," she said, as she laced her fingers into the hair at the back of his head. "Don't think. Just kiss me."

She strengthened her grip on him, her hands fisting tighter in his hair, pulling him, wanting him, and he wanted, too. So, God-damn much. He let his muscles loosen, and his body dropped lower, his chest now resting against hers. It was all heat and want and need. He could feel the quick rise and fall of her breaths, breaths he wanted to taste, devour. His fingers worked themselves into her hair, holding her tight, holding himself steady, and then he lowered his face to hers. Their lips brushed, once, twice, and Jace lifted his chin, giving her only the bottom lip, only a taste, playing, teasing. Her eyes slipped shut and her mouth parted just a little, a nearly silent whimper escaping through the space. And finally Jace couldn't take it anymore, couldn't take not being connected to her, not tasting her. He gripped her head hard between his palms and dropped his face the rest of the way, his breath and her breath mingling, converging into one as his mouth finally closed over hers. Clary gasped as if she weren't expecting it, or as if she was, but hadn't realized how much she wanted it. Jace knew the feeling, knew it so well he could still feel the want of it pumping through every vein, flooding every muscle. He wanted her. He wanted her so God-damn much—

The loud blare of music cut through the silence, severing the spell of breath and mouths. Clary startled and Jace pulled back, momentarily dazed, still somewhat caught in the haze of kissing and lust. And then it dawned on him what the sound was. He went to get up, and Clary dug her fingers into his shoulders, holding him down.

"Don't," she said, her voice all breath. "Just ignore it."

"Shit." Jace lowered his forehead to her chest, wanting nothing more than to do just that. But this specific ringtone let him know he couldn't. "It's my dad."

Clary's let out a defeated sigh.

Jace kissed her once on the collarbone. "I'm sorry." And again on the smooth skin under her chin. "It'll be just a minute." And again on the sensitive spot behind her ear. "Promise."

She nodded but didn't loosen her grasp.

"You've gotta let go of me, baby," he said.

"I don't want to," she whispered, with a sort of diluted desperation that spoke of her unrelenting fear of being left. "I don't ever want to."

His phone finally stopped, filling the room with only the sounds of their breath again, and Jace sank back down to her, slowly. His hands trailed over her cheeks and his eyes drank her in. The innocence of her, the truthfulness of her pain, it was all there in her face, in her eyes, embedded in her skin. There were parts he wanted to wipe away, to take from her forever. And others he wanted to memorize, to live, to wrap up and protect like they were his own.

Jace bent to kiss her again, to try to show just a little of what could never be adequately expressed with overrated and overused words. He'd said the words, the ones you're expected to say when you feel about someone the way he felt about her, but they weren't enough. Not for the enormity of it all, not for what he wanted her to know. But when his mouth touched hers, the phone starting blaring once again.

"Damn it," he said, and looked down at her apologetically. "He won't stop until I answer."

Clary sighed and gestured with a flip of her hand toward the phone. "It's fine. I need to use your bathroom anyway."

Jace pulled away and it was almost physically painful to do so. He helped Clary to her feet and crossed the room to his desk, as she went in the opposite direction to the bathroom. The offending, blaring object sat on top of the SEU paperwork. Jace glared at it all then snatched the phone up and pressed it to his ear.

"Hey, Dad." He closed his eyes and massaged his forehead. "What's up?"

"Why didn't you answer the first time I called? I bought you that phone so I could get a hold of you when I needed to."

Jace pushed his hand back into his hair, pulling the strands just enough for the pain to overshadow his annoyance. "Sorry. Is something wrong?"

"No. I just wanted to make sure you'd gotten home safely."

"Yeah. I'm fine."

The bathroom door opened with a quiet creak and Jace turned toward it. Clary stood framed in the doorway, her hair a mass of messed up curls and her clothes slightly rumbled. A shiver of want raced through him again.

"Good. Though you should have called me when you got home."

Jace rolled his eyes. He was quite sure his father hadn't been worrying about his son's safety while he drank expensive wine with his buddies. "Sorry," Jace repeated. "I—I was tired. I didn't think about it."

His father made a disapproving sound on the other end, then said, "There's another reason I'm calling."

Of course there was. Jace frowned and Clary mimicked his expression, mouthing, "Are you okay?" to him. He nodded and gestured her forward. She came, stopping just in front of him.

"I talked to Pangborn after you left—he called to enquire about the status of the paperwork—I told him we'd received it and were just reading through the fine print before sending it off."

Jace closed his eyes. "So you—you told him I accepted?"

"Of course I did. Why wouldn't I?"

Something hot and furious boiled up inside him. Jace didn't know why. This was what he wanted; it was what he'd always wanted. Clary's hand slipped inside his, the soft warmth of it soothing the anger.

"But, Dad, I—"

"'But' what, Jace? There are no buts. This is what we've worked for. It's all right here in your lap. Don't screw around, procrastinating until they get tired of waiting for you. It's not like you are their only prospect. Do you think they limit themselves to one? No. That would be idiotic. They have backup offers just waiting to go out. We cannot delay, son. Sign the papers and get them out. Secure your future now."

"But—" And then Jace was talking to a dial tone. "Damn it." He stabbed the end button and threw his phone onto his desk. With his free hand, he rubbed at the back of his neck.

"Is everything all right?" Clary asked.

Jace focused on her face, on how large and bright her eyes had become. "Yeah." He shook his head. "It's just my dad . . ."

Clary squeezed his fingers. "I get it. I have one too." She smiled. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Jace looked at her, wanting her still, but knowing and feeling the mood was gone. He sighed, shook his head, and withdrew his hand from hers, shoving them in his jeans pockets. He needed to think, to figure out what the hell was going on in his head, and he couldn't think when she was touching him. "Not really. But I am kind of hungry. You want something to eat?"

Some strange emotion flickered across Clary's face, but was gone as soon as it had come. "I'm always hungry. You know that."

"Okay," he tilted his head toward the door. "Come on then. We might even have some cinnamon and sugar donut holes."

Clary's face brightened. "My favorite."

Jace forced a smile as he held open the door and gestured for her to exit first. "I know."

.o.O.o.

Clary would never understand boys. Fifteen minutes ago, Jace had been all over her, kissing her, laying on her, touching her in a way that made her feel like he needed to touch her in order to live. Now, as they sat at the huge marble island in his chef's dream kitchen, he didn't touch her at all. He barely even looked at her. She tried to engage him in conversation while she stuffed her face with at least a half a container of donut holes, but Jace only answered by nodding his head or offering a quiet "mmhmm" where appropriate. It was obvious his father had said something to upset him, but Clary had learned that if Jace didn't want to talk, Jace wouldn't talk.

She pushed the nearly empty carton away. "I'm full."

"Me too," Jace said, as he continued to pick at his food. Clary didn't think he'd actually taken a bite of anything.

She stared at him, willing him to look at her, to tell her _something_. But he didn't. She sighed. "Maybe I should go."

That got his attention. He looked up at her from under the hair hanging over his forehead. Clary had the urge to push it back, but since he didn't seem to want to be touched, she didn't. "Why? Do you have to?"

"No," she said. "But you seem like maybe you want to be alone."

He lowered his gaze to the table. "No. I don't want to be alone. I'm sorry. I'm just . . . thinking."

When he didn't elaborate on what he was thinking about, Clary said, "Okay. Well . . ."

"Do you want me to show you around?" he said, and the words were rushed, almost as if he hadn't really thought them through and just said them to fill the awkwardness.

Clary shrugged. What she wanted was for him to talk to her. "Sure."

Jace nodded and stood from his stool, reaching out to help her up. Once she was on her feet, he tried to remove his hand, but she held on tight. After a second, the tension in his arm loosened and he let his fingers relax into hers. He led her out into the house, showing her room after room downstairs: a library—standard with a large wooden desk and more books than Clary could imagine ever being able to read, an entertainment room with a huge television and theater quality seats, a living room, family room, dining room, game room, and on and on and on.

The house was beautiful, but felt so impersonal. Clary kept looking for traces of Jace there: trophies, pictures, anything, but there was nothing there. The place was like a museum, only meant to impress. When Clary asked Jace about it, he'd said,

"My father keeps all my trophies and stuff in his office upstairs." And that was all he offered about it. He didn't ask her if she wanted to see them or if she wanted to know anything more about it. He didn't even seem all that bothered by the fact that his awards were in his father's possession and not his. Clary couldn't help but think it was strange. They were Jace's, not his father's, and he deserved to have them.

Before Clary had a chance to say anything, Jace stopped in front of a set of very heavy looking double doors. This section of the house looked different than the rest of it. Instead of the thick wood and marble, the floors were wood and the walls made from drywall. She frowned, and Jace must have understood her expression.

"My dad had this addition built when I was in junior high." He reached up and entered a code into the pad Clary hadn't noticed next to the door. The lock clicked and Jace reached forward to open the doors.

The strong scent of chlorine washed over her. Her mouth dropped open. "A pool? You have your own indoor pool?" She stepped into the huge space, and the warm moisture in the air clung to her skin. The walls and ceiling were made from what looked like enormous wood beams and glass. The pool was in the center of the room and surrounded by mosaic tiles in jeweled colors. Whatever the pattern was extended into the pool, as if the floor had just sunk in that spot and the picture continued regardless. Clary moved closer to the water, peering down inside to see if she could make out the design.

"Yeah, well, swimming is actually really good exercise. It helps build endurance, muscular strength, and flexibility. My father felt it was important for me to train in all different ways, so he built this." He gestured toward the pool.

Clary narrowed her eyes at the bottom of the pool. "What's that design?"

"A horseshoe," he said, continuing when she looked up at him in confusion. "They're the Wayland family symbol."

"So, you spend a lot of time in here?"

He nodded slowly, looking out into the room but almost as if he didn't see it at all. "I spend a lot of time training in general: running, swimming, lifting, throwing. I can't become lax even out of season, can't let any part of myself get weak, even if it doesn't seem to matter at the moment. There's always someone out there waiting for me to screw up, waiting to take my place, waiting to beat me down and spit in my face when they do. I need to be at my peak. Always at my peak . . ."

His voice trailed off from words that were clearly not his. Clary knew this because she'd heard similar words before. From her brother. And she'd known then, just as she knew now, that those words weren't Jonathan's, they were her father's. A wave of anger rose up in her, both at her own father for what he'd put her brother through, and for Jace's for what he was doing to Jace now.

"Jace . . ." She went to step toward him but somehow forgot about the pool in front of her. When her foot came down, it landed right on the curved edge and slipped off. She didn't have time to scream, only to gasp as she spun and lurched backward. Jace's eyes widened and he reached for her, but she caught him first by the front of the shirt.

Water rose up around her, engulfing her entire body and covering her face. Hands grasped her by the shirt and pulled her up toward the surface. When she broke through, she sputtered and coughed and tried to wipe the water from her eyes. Her feet touched the ground, though only just since her chin was barely above the surface. Jace stood in front of her, water pouring from his drenched hair. His brows were pulled together in concern as she hacked and coughed. Once all the water was out of her lungs, she couldn't help but laugh. Jace's face smoothed over and finally,_ finally_, he cracked a grin.

"That was very graceful," he said, still grinning as rivulets of water continued to run down his face.

"Yeah, well, I've become very adept at falling lately. I'm thinking of making it a sport." And she didn't just mean the physical act of falling, either.

"You'd win the gold for sure."

She narrowed her eyes and lifted her hand, pushing a shower of water toward him. He turned away quickly and came back at her with his own wave, and then they were having an all out splash war. Clary could barely breathe, barely see, but what she could see was the most beautiful thing she'd witnessed all night. Jace was smiling, _smiling_. She realized with a jolt, that she'd rarely seen him smile like that. Yes, he grinned and smirked and offered that small, sexy lift of one side of his mouth, but outright smiling? Not often.

Clary stopped splashing, wanting to see more clearly, but apparently Jace didn't get her mental memo and lunged at her. He grabbed her by the waist and tossed her a few feet away. She went under but jumped to her feet as quickly as she could and lunged back, almost tackling him. When his hands circled her waist again, she managed to get her arms and legs around him and clung to him like a spider monkey.

"If you think that's going to stop me, you're wrong," he said, his grin so big, so wide, it made Clary's chest hurt. "I'll dunk us both."

"I don't care," Clary said, her body still tightly wound around him, water pouring off her and onto him. "I don't care what you do to me as long as you don't stop smiling like that." Confusion clouded his eyes. Clary chanced him throwing her again and loosened her arms from around his neck, though left her legs securely around his waist. She moved her hands to his face and let her eyes take him in. Fair, wet curls hung over his forehead in plastered patches, and his eyes were so bright in the dim light she could see herself reflected in them. Her fingers traced his cheekbones, and she whispered, "You've always been so good-looking. But when you smile like that . . . when you smile . . . you're so beautiful."

His smile dissolved and he was giving her that look again. "Clary . . ."

"Tell me how to make you smile, Jace. Tell me how to make this leave," she touched her finger to the corners of his frown, "and make the smile come back. Tell me how."

He didn't say anything for several seconds and just stared back at her. She could tell by the way his eyes searched her face that he was looking for something, needing something, but she had no idea what. Finally, he said, "Would you be upset if I didn't go?"

She blinked. "What? Didn't go where?"

"To SEU. If I didn't take the scholarship."

Her mouth dropped open as she thought about what he'd asked. Would she be upset if he didn't go . . . Why wouldn't he go? Why would he— And then she knew, knew with sickening certainty. The only reason he'd stay was because he felt like he had to, because of her, because she was pregnant. "Of course I'd be upset. How can you even think about not going? This—this is your future, Jace. You can't throw it away." _Not for this_, she thought. _Not for me._

His searching gaze snapped shut and his eyes hardened. "Fine," was all he said as he lifted her from him, setting her on the side of the pool and climbing out himself.

He didn't look back at her as he walked away. Clary scrambled to her feet, water cascading from her drenched clothes to the tiles below. "Jace." She slipped a little and fought to right herself before starting after him once more. "Jace—" But he'd already shoved through the doors. Clary was speechless. What the hell was wrong with him?

She hurried forward, trying hard not to slip again, and followed him out into the house. She felt a little bad trailing water all over, but he was doing the same thing and didn't seem to care. Jace still didn't turn to look at her as he started up the stairs. Clary could do nothing but follow and it was starting to piss her off that he wasn't talking, wasn't even making sure she was behind him. By the time they reached his room, she was shaking with anger.

"Jace, what the hell?" she asked.

He still didn't answer and went to his dresser, pulling out dry clothes as he dripped pool water all over the floor.

Clary moved up behind him, stress evident in his back and shoulders. "Jace," she said. Still no answer. "Jace!" She touched his shoulder and he spun around.

"What?" he half-shouted.

Clary stepped back, her eyes widening at the tone of his voice.

He closed his eyes and thrust his hand into his hair. "What?" he said, quieter.

"What the hell is wrong with you?"

Jace shook his head and held out his other hand. Inside, he clutched what looked like a t-shirt and a pair of boxer shorts. "You're getting the floor all wet."

Clary waited for him to say something else, anything else, to explain what had happened and how they'd gotten to this point. But still, he said nothing. She narrowed her eyes and snatched the clothes out of his hand. "You know, I can tell you're upset about something, but that doesn't give you the right to act like such an asshole." Crossing the room to his en suite bathroom, she slammed the door shut and leaned against it. What was going on? She had no idea what had him so upset. Why wouldn't he just _talk_ to her?

As quickly as she could, she pulled off her wet things—bra and panties included—and slipped the dry ones over her still damp body. God, they smelled like Jace. She had to fight the urge to succumb to the most girly thing imaginable and take in a big whiff of them.

Jace's clothes swallowed her frame, making it seem like she had no curves at all. The shirt came almost to the top of her knees and the waist of the boxers had to be rolled several times before they'd stay up. Her reflection stared back at her from the oval mirror set above the sink. She looked like crap. Her hair hung in red clumps around her shoulders and her face was paler than usual. Not for the first time, she wondered what it was about her that Jace had liked in the first place. Not seeing a brush anywhere, she combed her fingers through her hair, giving up after that just made it worse.

Placing her hands on the edge of the sink, she closed her eyes and took in a few cleansing breaths. She really didn't want to fight with Jace; she'd had enough fighting over the last two weeks with her mother. Right then she just needed_ him_, needed to be with him. But she couldn't really do that until she found out what was going on inside his head. What had happened to make him so upset? She'd assumed it was his father, but the way he'd walked away from her at the pool . . . the way his face had snapped into a mask of stone . . . maybe it wasn't his father at all.

Determined to find out, Clary gathered her wet clothes and opened the door to Jace's room. When she saw what awaited her there, her heart nearly stopped.

Jace still stood across the room at the dresser but this time he had on no shirt—or pants. Clary swallowed hard as her eyes trailed over all that skin. He rummaged through one of the drawers, wearing only a pair of boxers, much like the ones she was wearing herself. She probably could have stood there and stared all night, memorizing the way the muscles in his back flexed and moved with him. A small squeak escaped her throat at the thought.

He half turned, barely looking at her from over his shoulder. "You can put your wet clothes over there with mine. I'll go put them in the dryer so you have something to wear home." Then he went back to his drawer.

Clary did as he asked and dropped her clothes with his, but instead of standing there waiting for him to turn his attention on her, she crossed the room to where he stood. He was so rigid, a huge bundle of anger and nerves. She just wanted to reach out and touch him, to do something to draw all the tension out, but she knew he'd never let her. His posture was all walls, big brick and mortar ones designed to keep her out."

"Jace," she whispered. And at her voice, his shoulders and head dropped. A ragged breath left his lips. Clary felt her heart skip. "Tell me what's wrong."

He shook his head, and she thought he was still going to keep her out, but he spoke instead. "Why don't you want me to stay?"

"What? What do you mean?" Clary asked.

Jace turned, and his eyes were so pained it nearly took Clary's breath away. "You're angry at everyone else for leaving you: your brother, Simon, your mom, but when it comes to me you tell me you'll be upset if I _don't_ leave. Why don't you want me to stay?"

"That's—that's what you think? That I don't want you to stay?"

"I don't know what I think." He shook his head. "All I know is that I was so afraid to tell you about the offer because I didn't want you to think I was leaving you. But then you go and tell me you'd be upset if I _didn't_ go, and now I don't know what to think." Clary watched his throat move as he swallowed. "Everyone expects something of me. They expect me to do what they want. But what about what _I_ want? What if I don't want to go?"

"But—Jace, this is your—"

"My dream. Yeah. Yeah, I know. So everyone keeps reminding me."

"I don't—I don't understand."

His hand was back in his hair again. "God, I don't either, okay? I thought it was my dream too, and maybe it still is, but all I know is I can't sign those God-damn papers." He pointed to the stack on his desk. "Shit. I've been trying for two damn weeks and I can't do it. I thought maybe it was because I was afraid of your reaction, but now I've told you and it's even worse. And my dad is up my ass to sign. 'Secure your future,' 'They won't wait for you forever' he said. And I can feel the pressure, you know? The time is ticking away to where I'm going to have to just do something, one way or another, but I still can't sign it. And I don't know why. Part of me wants to because I know it's my shot, maybe my only shot. And I love football, Clary. I really do. I've always known it was what I was made for. But then I start to wonder if maybe I was wrong. Maybe I wasn't made for football at all. Maybe I was made for this. Maybe I was made for you. And then what I want more than anything is for you to ask me to stay, for you to tell me you don't want me to go."

"Jace . . ."

He held up his hand and shook his head. "Don't. Okay? Just don't. I don't want to hear any more about my 'dream' or how I 'have' to do anything."

Jace started to move past her, but her hand shot out and pressed against his stomach. She could feel the ridges of his abs under her palm. "Wait," she whispered, and he waited, his muscles tightening under her touch. She wanted to run her fingers over them, explore every inch of him. Her gaze moved up his torso, over golden skin and firm muscle, noticing for the first time a line of black numbers inked down his side, stretching from his ribs to his hip bone. The skin around them was still a little red and swollen, telling her the tattoo was new. When her eyes met his, she said, very quietly, "I don't want you to go."

She felt some of the stiffness leave him, but not all. "Don't say that just because you know it's what I want to hear."

"I'm not," she said. "I don't want you to go. It kills me to think about you leaving, but it also kills me to think of you giving up everything you've worked so hard for because of me. I want you to have everything you want, everything you deserve. And if what you truly want is not to go, then I'll support you. I'll want that for you. But if you decide you want to go, Jace, what kind of person would it make me to tell you not to just because I'd miss you?"

"A human one," he said.

She snorted. "Yeah, well, I'm plenty human about everything else in my life. For once I'm trying to be better than human."

"You already are. You're the best thing in this whole damn world. At least the best thing in mine."

Clary stilled for a moment, unable to move, unable to breathe, and then she stepped into him, raising her other hand, so both were now resting on his waist. She leaned her forehead against his chest and closed her eyes. He smelled like chlorine, but still like him too. "How could you have even thought I didn't want you to stay?" she whispered. "That's _all_ I want."

"Because I'm an idiot," he said. "And sometimes I just need you to tell me you want me."

"I want you," she breathed, and pulled him closer, her lips finding the hollow of his throat. "I want you so much."

Jace let out a breath, and then they were turning and Clary's back was against the wall. Jace was flush against her and his hands were on the bare skin of her stomach. Her fingers dug into the flesh at his sides in surprise, in anticipation.

"Clary?" he asked, his voice strained and his grip on her tightening.

"I promised," she whispered, reminding him, reassuring him. Her hands slid up and over his shoulders until they twined around his neck, his wet hair cold against her skin. "I still promise."

And with a harsh exhale, his mouth was on hers, his hands running across her abdomen, and his hips pressing her hard into the wall. Clary couldn't decide which sensation she liked best, his mouth, his hands, or the rest of him rubbing on her. She wanted to feel him everywhere, his skin on her skin, his fingers and mouth and every other part of him on every part of her. He was a blazing hot flame, setting her on fire. And, God, she wanted to burn.

Jace seemed to understand this without her saying a word because his hands moved over her hips and down to her bare thighs. His fingers spread across her skin, slipped behind her legs, and ran over her backside to her lower back and continued climbing, her shirt coming with them. Clary felt his thumbs brush along her ribs and the outsides of her breasts. He made her ache in ways she never knew she could. She wanted his whole hand on her, his whole everything on her.

As he inched up her body, she raised her hands over her head, slowly, and felt his palms slide up her arms, the chilly air in the room brushing over her and making her flesh pebble with goosebumps. But then her shirt was gone and she was so warm, and he was all skin and muscle and hands and mouth.

Jace's hands fell back to her thighs and his fingers dug in, lifting her effortlessly onto his hips. And she could feel _him_ against _her, _right there, right where she never knew she needed him, and it was so good she could have cried. She kind of did, quietly, and into his neck, a soft, short whimper of sorts.

The room spun, or maybe it was them, and then Clary found herself on her back, surrounded by white softness and Jace. He hovered over her, one of his legs between her thighs, his hands holding his torso off from hers, and he was staring down at her, just looking, memorizing. Clary felt a pang of embarrassment wash over her, knowing what he was seeing: her pale, freckled skin, her barely-there chest, the small but noticeable bump in her abdomen. Self-consciously, she lifted her hands to cover herself, but he grabbed her wrists before she could.

"Don't," he said.

Her face heated. "But, I'm not—"

"You are," he said, his eyes big, bright, and focused entirely on her. There wasn't an ounce of disgust in the way he looked at her, nor in the way he lifted a hand and trailed his fingers carefully down her body. His touch was light, exploring, chill-inducing.

Clary shivered and grabbed onto his arms, feeling the corded muscles under her fingers. She was pretty sure she felt goosebumps rise on his skin too. His chest lifted and fell quickly, and his arms trembled just a little. Maybe from the strain of holding himself up, maybe from something else. She couldn't be sure. All she knew was that he was too far away.

She slid her hands to his shoulders and pulled against him. He came willingly, his warm skin pressing against her warmer skin, and it was like the clouds had opened up and poured every ray of sunshine down onto them. Heat prickled along every surface he touched, and she wanted more of it.

His mouth met hers, his tongue swiping along her lips and between her teeth. His hands trailed, stopping for a moment on her breasts. All of his weight pressed down on her, and Clary couldn't breathe, but she'd gladly die there if she could see and hear and feel nothing but him all around her.

Jace shifted his weight onto one elbow, and Clary reached out to pull him back, missing him already, missing the way his stomach, ribs and chest felt against hers.

"I'm not going anywhere," he said. "I just don't want to crush you. And also," he looked down again, "I want to touch you."

Clary shivered once more and let him go. His hand started at her shoulder, his touch so light she could barely feel the tips of his fingers as he moved them down. Down, down, down until they were across her collarbone, between her breasts, on them, over them, between her ribs, circling her belly button, then tracing the rolled up waist of her shorts. She felt like she was hyperventilating, her breath so fast, so shallow.

Jace looked up at her. "Do you want me to stop?"

She shook her head, and he dipped his to her neck and his fingers under the boxers. Her breath caught.

"Tell me if you want me to stop," he whispered, almost like he wanted her to stop him.

But she wasn't going to. She didn't want to, so she reached up to twist her fingers into his hair and kissed him instead, long and lingering and deep. His body loosened and curved in around her, covering her, smothering her. His mouth was everywhere: her neck, her chest, her stomach, and his hands were too: one following his mouth and the other in her shorts. She could feel everything he was doing to her, _everything_, everywhere and all at once, and it was so good and scary and raw. Her body was doing things she didn't know it could do, sparking in ways she didn't know it could spark, and all she wanted was more. So much more.

She ran her hand down his back, her palm skipping over smooth lines of muscle and bone, her fingers finding every perfect dip and groove and dimple, until she reached the waistband of his boxers. Her heart sped with want and curiosity. Without another thought, Clary slipped her fingers under the band at his hip. The skin underneath was so soft, so much softer than the skin on his back.

Jace startled at her touch and jumped back a little, causing her fingers to slip out from beneath his shorts. He peered down at her, eyes wide.

"I'm sorry," she said quickly, embarrassment crashing over her in waves. "Do you—do you not want me to?" Oh, God, maybe she should have asked first. Should she have asked first?

His brows rose. "Do _you_ want to?"

She nodded. "I actually really just want you to take them off." Blood rushed to her cheeks and chest at the admission.

"You . . . want me to take off my boxers?" he said slowly, as if he were having a hard time understanding.

Her face flared even hotter. "Are you trying to make me more embarrassed than I already am? Because if so, bravo."

"No. No! Of course not. I'm just . . . I'm trying to figure out if I've somehow managed to fall asleep and am having the best dream ever right now."

"You're not asleep, but I'm obviously an idiot." She covered her face with her hands, hot tears stinging her eyes. "God, I'm so stupid."

Clary felt Jace move a little and settle beside her, half on her and half off. "Stop," he said quietly. "You're not an idiot. I'm the idiot." His hands pulled at hers, but she wasn't ready to show her face yet. "I'm sorry. Please look at me."

She exhaled and removed her hands. Jace was looking down at her, his eyes bright and cheeks flushed, hair everywhere. He looked so good she wanted to die.

Jace dipped down and kissed her lightly on the corner of her mouth. "I'm sorry I made you feel stupid. I didn't mean to. You just surprised me, that's all."

"It surprises you to think I'd want to see you naked? Do I really seem like that much of a prude?"

"No. Shit." His hand was in his hair again. "Should I just shove my foot in my mouth right now and get it over with?"

"No, that'd be super unattractive."

And then he smiled that smile Clary loved, the one that made her whole body feel like it was melting into a goopy puddle. He kissed her again and ran his fingers over her cheek, his eyes steady on hers.

"What do you want, Clary? I'll do whatever you want."

She reached up and laid her hand on his cheek. The want was still there inside her, but it was different now. It wasn't a raging inferno threatening to burn her up from the inside out; it was smaller, steadier, and somehow warmer. And she realized that this was the difference she'd been looking for. What she was feeling wasn't just an uncontrollable hormonal need for his body, but a need for him, for all of him. Lifting her face, she touched her mouth to his, kissing him slowly, sweetly. Her hand moved from his face and down his chest, until her fingers hooked the front of his shorts.

"I want you to take these off, and I want you to take mine off. And I want you to kiss me. And then I want to see what happens."

Jace touched his forehead to hers and his ragged breaths fell over her face. "You already know what will happen if I do that."

Clary nodded, her lips brushing his cheek, his jaw, his chin. "I do."

Jace closed his eyes. "God, Clary, are you sure? Because—"

"I'm sure I love you," Clary said. "What else is there to be sure of?"

Jace's breath stopped and his eyes opened, settling on hers. She didn't look away, not even as he leaned in and kissed her, his mouth so warm, so safe. Her nerves skipped and shivered, but she didn't feel afraid. Not when she felt his hand skim her waist, and not when his fingers curled into the band of her shorts. Not even when he started to pull.

She lifted her hips and continued to kiss him as the fabric slid down her legs. Once it was gone, he ran his palm up the outside of her leg, all the way to her face, smooth, straight, unencumbered by anything. She'd always thought being naked with someone else would make her feel stupid, but the way he looked at and touched her made her feel nothing short of beautiful. With him she felt beautiful.

Her hands slid down his chest, fingers rising and falling over every muscle on the way down to his shorts. Following his lead, she hooked her fingers in and pulled. Jace helped when the fabric got stuck on him, and finished removing them himself. Through it all, he didn't stop kissing her, didn't stop touching her with fingers so careful and soft. But now he did stop and his eyes met hers. She stared up at him as he moved all the way on top of her, one hand tucking under her knee and lifting her leg in order to settle himself between her thighs. His fingers trembled against her skin. Clary drew up her other knee and Jace's body sank right into the space she'd made for him.

His breath came out in a gush and Clary's caught when parts of them touched that neither of them could remember touching before. Jace looked down at her, so many questions and concerns in his eyes: _Are you sure? Are you ready? Is this really what you want?_

She touched his face with just the tips of her now shaking fingers and nodded, letting her hands slip to his shoulders. Jace braced himself over top of her, leaned in to kiss her, and moved forward all at the same time. Clary gasped when she felt him, not really in pain, but more in surprise, even though she was expecting it all the same.

Jace stopped. "Am I hurting you?"

Clary shook her head and tried to find the words to describe something she couldn't. "No. It doesn't hurt. It just—just go slow, okay?"

He nodded and moved a little more, slower, more careful. Clary's fingers tensed and she was pretty sure her nails were in his shoulders. She hadn't been lying when she said it didn't hurt, but it did sort of burn uncomfortably.

After a few moments, Jace stopped again, his whole body taut and shaking.

Clary knew exactly what he was doing and why. Her hands went into his hair and pulled his face down to hers, though she didn't kiss him. "You're not hurting me. I promise," she reassured.

He nodded again, not drawing back but not coming forward either, and then he moved again, slowly at first. His eyes slipped shut and his mouth opened as his breathing grew heavier. The burn that had initially accompanied his movements faded away until there was just him and just her and just what they were doing with each other. Clary wrapped her arms around his back and pulled him closer, as close as she could manage.

She was awash in sensation, every touch, every kiss, every movement was so much, too much: the way his body, damp with sweat, moved so smooth and easily with hers, the way his hands kept fumbling for something else to hold, something else to touch, and how he'd kiss her, and then seem to lose the ability to continue and just breathe her breath instead. She wanted it to continue forever, wanted to stay there with him forever. There was nothing in the world that could be better than that. But she knew that couldn't happen, wouldn't happen. It would be over soon, and that soon was approaching faster than she wanted it to.

Jace's movements became less controlled and somewhat frantic. Clary tried to hold him tighter, but he pulled her hands from around his neck and held them above her head with one of his. And with the other, he reached down between them.

Never before had Clary felt anything like what she was feeling now. There was no way to describe it other than saying it was like falling and flying and living and dying all at the same time. It felt so good it almost hurt. Her legs shook, her hands ached, her heart pounded, her stomach clenched. Her fingers flexed and contracted under Jace's hold. She needed to touch him, to hold onto him before she tumbled into wherever it was he was taking her alone.

"Jace . . ." she said, barely able to speak, her body knotting up on itself, so tense, so everything. And she wanted to let him know what she was feeling, what she needed, but the words were gone.

"I know," was all he said, his voice just as hoarse as hers, just as desperate.

And then he let go of her hands, as if he really did know all along. With a gasp, she grabbed onto his shoulders and her back arched up as the room, the world, the universe, crashed down around them. Jace's arm wrapped around her, holding her up, keeping her safe, his breath spilling over her neck and his heart slamming against her chest. And they were falling together, dying together, bodies fused, hearts entangled. Clary could no longer feel herself, could no longer feel him, because they were no longer separate. And she thought, this was what the fuss was all about, this feeling, this . . . completeness. It wasn't sex at all—though that was good too—it was this. And this was enough to make her surrender, enough to make her brave, enough to make her risk everything to keep it. To keep him.

* * *

><p><em>I've been getting many, many, many messages asking when the parents will find out. All I can say is: it won't be long now. Please just be patient. Don't try to rush the inevitable. I know you want to know what happens, but enjoy this (very short in the grand scheme of things) period where Jace and Clary can be and feel normal and in love.<em>

_Until next time, XOXO ~ddpjclaf_


	17. My Choice

****The character names of The Mortal Instruments are owned by Cassandra Clare. The original content, ideas and intellectual property of this story are owned by ddpjclaf, 2011. Please do not copy, reproduce, or translate without express written permission.****

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Seventeen - "My Choice"<strong>

_Thank you all for your patience in waiting for this chapter. As many of you know, I spent the entire weekend watching my son play in a soccer tournament. Five games in 2 days, in 90 degree heat. O_o. But it was so much fun! His team ended up going to the championship game and losing to a team of high schoolers (2-2.5 years older than the kids on my son's team) So, all in all, we are very proud of him/them!_

_Thank you to LLWB for beta-ing, as usual. I *heart* you girl!_

_Chapter Songs:_

_**Take Your Time – Cary Brothers _

_**The First of Me – Hoobastank_

_**Hey Now – Augustana _

* * *

><p>Clary had no idea when she'd fallen asleep, or even how she had managed to after what had happened between her and Jace. She'd been so wired at the time she didn't think she would ever sleep again. But the next thing she knew, the sun shone bright through the window and the bed beside her was empty.<p>

Stretching her hand out, all she felt was cold, telling her Jace hadn't been there for awhile. Clary rolled over and caught sight of where he had gone. He sat at the desk across the room, still only dressed in a pair of boxers, his body curved over and his head resting on his arms.

She frowned and sat up. Jace didn't move, clearly asleep. Clary stood from the bed and picked up the t-shirt and boxers she'd worn the night before, slipping them on as quickly as she could. Quietly, she walked over to where he sat. Her eyes fell over his still form, raking over the curve of his spine and the broad expanse of his shoulders, noticing the crescent-shaped marks scattered over his shoulder blades. Heat flooded her face when she remembered how they had gotten there. She felt the indescribable urge to touch him again, to run her hands over every part of him, to trace the lines of his tattoo with her fingers.

Clary remembered how surprised she'd been to see it there the night before, but it hadn't been until _after_ that she'd had the chance to bring it up.

They'd lain there next to each other, on their sides, nearly chest to chest, as both of them caught their breath. Clary's fingers slid up and down Jace's side, his skin still dampened with his sweat and hers, and her heart strumming wildly in her chest. Everything about her ached, but not in a way that was unpleasant. She couldn't stop kissing him, couldn't stop touching him, needing to somehow stay connected to him. The feeling was inexpressible and completely opposite from before. This had nothing to do with lust, nothing to do with wanting him because her body said so; it had everything to do with how she felt about him. Her chest was tight, but not with worry or sadness, like she was used to. It was more like her body was not big enough to hold all the emotion inside and it was trying to burst through her ribs to escape.

Jace's hand was on her face, the curve of her neck, and his mouth was so tender, so different from how it had been moments before when he was above her, when he had kissed her so hard and so deep it was as if he were trying to take her into himself. Clary continued to trace his ribs, up, down, up, down, unable to believe that she was really there, that she'd really done what she'd just done, but not regretting it for a single second. It wasn't until her fingers brushed the raised patch near his hip that she looked down and really took in the ink imbedded in his flesh.

3210691611

She'd traced the numbers as carefully as she could, seeing that the skin surrounding them still looked irritated and not wanting to hurt him.

"What does it mean?" she'd whispered.

Jace glanced down and touched the numbers himself. His fingers lingered on the three at the beginning. "They're dates."

Clary frowned. "Dates for what?"

He lifted his gaze to hers, his eyes so open, so clear. "For the most significant days of my life." Jace took her hand and ran her fingers over the design, starting at the three, then the two, the one, the zero and the six. "March twenty-first, two-thousand six," he whispered. "The day my mom died."

Her breath caught, and she studied the next numbers in the series: 91611. It took her a second, and then she knew. "September sixteenth, two-thousand eleven." Her gaze rose to his. "The night of the party."

He'd nodded once. "The night I met you."

Clary closed her eyes as she remembered how that had felt, to know that that night, the one neither of them could fully remember, was now etched permanently into his skin. That he had chosen to wear it, like a badge, or a scar, for the rest of his life. Standing behind him now, she wanted to trace the numbers again, to absorb them into her own skin, to absorb him. Her entire body buzzed with want, and she realized that having sex had not lessened the amount she wanted him like she thought it might, it had only made it worse.

God, what if she felt like this all the time now? What if she wanted to jump him every second of every day? What if she was really going to be a great big horny slut now? The thought made her feel sick, and slightly desperate for him to wake up and possibly do again what they did last night. But as she stared down at him, she saw how peaceful he looked. There were no lines in his brow, no worried light in his eyes, no pout to his lips, and she felt something else rise up in her, something very familiar and very warm. And more than anything else, she just wanted to hold him.

Leaning in, she brushed the hair away from his face and pressed a kiss to his cheek. He stirred under her touch.

"What are you doing over here," she asked. "Was I hogging the bed?"

Jace grinned, his eyes still closed and his head still resting on his arms. "No, that's my job."

"Mmhmm," she hummed, brushing a kiss to his shoulder. Her hands ran down his arms, fingers circling his biceps. "You are a massive bed hog, but I think that's kind of cute."

Jace lifted his head and kissed her lightly on the mouth. "I couldn't sleep and didn't want to wake you."

"I wouldn't have minded," she said, standing straight as he sat up.

"I would've. You were tired. You need your rest." He turned sideways in the chair and circled his arms around her waist, pulling her into the space between his legs. "Are you okay?" he asked, his voice so quiet, still clouded with sleep and a little bit of worry. "I mean, are you—"

"I'm perfect." Her hands immediately went into his hair and moved the impossibly soft strands away from his forehead. She knew exactly what he was referring to, exactly what worried him. A line formed between his brows, as if he didn't quite believe her. "I promise." Clary felt his shoulders loosen; she hadn't even noticed he'd been tense in the first place. "Why couldn't you sleep?" she asked.

Jace pulled away, scrubbed his hands over his face, and pointed to the stack of papers on the desk. Clary's eyes followed his direction, landing on the space where his signature was supposed to go. It was still blank, save for multiple dots where the tip of his pen had touched the paper. She sighed and moved to the desk. Her fingers swiped over the line a few times and then she glanced back at Jace. He was studying her with this look . . . a look that seemed like he was asking her what to do, as if she might have the answers he didn't. She wished she did.

She gathered the papers into one hand, then held the other out to him. He looked at her in confusion. She nodded toward the bed. "Come on. We'll look at them together."

Jace eyed her carefully, before taking her hand and following her back to the bed. Clary sat, folding her legs under her, and he sat beside her, both of them leaning up against the headboard. She handed the papers back to Jace and he took them, his fingers supporting them with a touch that looked so tentative, like just touching them may burn him. The line between his brows returned, and Clary could see the uncertainty revisit his gaze.

"Why are you so afraid of these papers?" she asked.

He shook his head. "I don't know."

"Is it—it is because of me?" she asked, fear tingeing her voice. "Because I'm pregnant?"

Jace said nothing for several seconds and then slowly shook his head. "No, I don't think so, not that that doesn't have any bearing on my decision, because it has to. There's no use denying that. But I think it's more just . . . me. I don't know if this is what_ I_ want anymore."

"Why not? You don't want to play football anymore?"

"No, I want to play."

Clary let out a breathy laugh. "Jace, you're confusing me."

He grinned, a small, sad grin. "Try living in my head." The smile faded away and he looked down at the papers in his hand. "It isn't that I don't want to play, or go to college, or anything. I think it's just . . . it's just that there's so much up in the air right now, and I want so many different things all at the same time."

"Like what?"

"Like you," he said. "Like the baby. Like . . . so many things, Clary."

Clary's chest clenched. "But . . . I mean, we haven't even talked about what we want to do about . . . everything."

"I know. But I've been thinking about it."

"You have?"

"Of course I have." He looked at her again. "What do you think, I just forget about it?"

"No," she said. "No, I just . . . I try not to think about it very much myself, so I couldn't blame you if you didn't."

"We have to think about it, Clary. We have to talk about it. It's not going to go away or magically decide what we need to do for us."

She closed her eyes and tipped her head back against the headboard. "I know, but I don't want to."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm afraid. I'm afraid of what I want and what I don't. I'm afraid to say any of it out loud. I'm afraid you'll be upset with me once you know what I've been thinking about."

Jace was quiet for several long moments, moments that seemed to stretch into eternity, before he finally spoke. "Do you want to give it up?"

Clary swallowed against the tightening in her throat.

"Do you?" he whispered.

"Yes." Her chest squeezed so hard it felt as if one of her ribs could break. "No. Yes and no." The papers crinkled in Jace's hand. Clary looked back at him, and he was staring down at them, his brows pulled together. The look on his face was not happy, was not relief. In fact, those emotions were the furthest thing from the expression she saw. She immediately felt defensive. "I'm sixteen years old, Jace, _sixteen_. I have two years left of high school, my parents are getting a divorce, my brother is barely tolerating the idea of me seeing you, and when my parents find out, I don't—I don't know what they're going to do. I have no business having a baby or trying to raise a baby . . . I'm sixteen . . ." She paused, the fight in her dying down a little as he closed his eyes and let out a quiet sigh. "But then I remember that it's your baby. It's_ our_ baby, and I just . . ."

"You just what?" he asked, still not looking at her.

She reached over and removed the papers from his hand, setting them on the nightstand beside them. Then she crawled into his lap, straddling his legs and reaching out for his face. She held him between her palms and brought his eyes up to hers. "I just know that anything that's a part of you, a part of us, I could love. I could love it so much."

Jace wrapped his hands around her wrists, a spark of something akin to hope flashing in his eyes. "We could do it together. We could—"

"But _should_ we?"

His eyes moved from one of hers to the other, his brows furrowed. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, yes, technically, we could. We could keep this baby and raise it together, and we could love it. But . . . could we give it everything it needs? Everything it deserves? Could we love it enough to make up for all the things we couldn't do for it? Should we even try to?" She swallowed. "And—and what about us? What about football? What about college? What about high school and cheerleading? What about us just being kids? What if we did this and then started resenting each other for all the stuff and opportunities we lost because of this?" She shook her head, feeling like a horrible person for even thinking about half those things. "These are the things that go through my head when I think about this, about what we should do. And it's like I'm banging my head against a wall. And I know that most of those things are selfish, but I don't know how to not think about them, how to not question them."

"I don't think you're being selfish—not any more than I am anyway, because I think about the same things. I question the same things." He paused. "But then I think . . . if I could have chosen between having all of this," he swiped his hand in front of him, gesturing to the room and the house surrounding them, "all these comforts, all these . . . things . . . or my real dad loving me enough to try his best, I would have chosen him." He shook his head. "I'm not saying adoption is bad, it's not. I mean, if Michael hadn't adopted me I'd have no one right now. But, for me, it doesn't compare. No possession, no home, no lifestyle can ever make up for what it feels like I missed out on." His voice lowered to a whisper. "I would still choose him."

Clary's heart dropped into her stomach. She often forgot about Jace's real father, something she was ashamed to admit even to herself. "But this isn't the same situation."

"No, it's not. But I'm not sure it matters. It wouldn't have mattered for me, whether he'd gone because he'd been too young and didn't have a way to support me, or if he'd walked out because he didn't want me. I think I would still feel the same, I would still wonder why I wasn't good enough for him to try. It doesn't matter the intention, it doesn't matter the reason, I would still feel abandoned at some point."

Clary's eyes stung with tears.

Jace's face fell and he reached for her, his thumbs brushing the moisture away. "Shit. Don't cry. I didn't mean to make you cry. I didn't mean—" He leaned in and rested his face against hers. "God, I'm an asshole."

"No, you're not," Clary said. "I need to hear this. I need to know. This isn't something they tell you in the pamphlets. They just make it sound all wonderful, like you can give your baby to people who will be able to take care of it the way you can't, and then you don't have to worry anymore. You can just go back to your life . . . They don't talk about this, about what might happen later. About how it might affect everyone. But I still _don't know what the right thing is_, Jace."

"I don't have the answers, Clary," Jace whispered. "I don't know what the right thing to do is, either. I don't know anything. I only have my own experiences, how it feels to be me. And I don't want that for my kid. I don't want him to find out who I am someday, see what I chose to do with my life, and wonder why I chose that instead of raising him. I don't want him to wonder why I didn't want him."

Tears flowed freely over Clary's cheeks now. "Or her," she said.

"What?"

"You said him, but it could be a her. It could be a girl, so 'or her.'"

"Or her," he brushed the tears off her face once more, "of course, 'or her.'"

"Jace, I just . . . I don't know."

"You don't have to know yet. We don't have to know yet."

"You sound like you already do know," she said.

"I know how this feels." He placed his hand over his heart. "My perspective is different. But that doesn't mean I know if it's the right thing for you, for any of us."

Clary wrapped her arms around him, burying her face in his neck. "How will we know?"

"Maybe we won't," he said. "Maybe that's the point. There is no right and there is no wrong, there's just this. Just you and just me and just what we want."

"Maybe . . . But," she sat back and looked at him, "what if I don't want what you want? What if I can't do it? Will you hate me then?"

Jace placed his hand on her face, his fingers lightly drawing lines up and down her cheek. "I could never hate you," he whispered. "Why would you even think that?"

She looked down at her lap. "Because I read—"

He gripped her face between his hands and forced her gaze back up to his. "Then maybe you should stop reading," he said. "What I feel, you're not going to find in a book or a pamphlet or any other shit Izzy or the doctor gives you. You're only going to get it from me. I told you last night and I'm telling you right now how I feel. That's not going to change because you may or may not want the same things I want. I get that this is big, it's huge compared to so many other decisions we're going to have to make in our lives, but that doesn't mean what I said becomes void." He closed his eyes and leaned in. "We're in this together, Clary. No matter what. We'll make this decision together and we'll live with whatever that decision is together. Okay?"

"But what about SEU—"

"Do you know what I want, Clary? What I want right this second?"

She shook her head.

Jace reached over to the nightstand and grabbed the papers from SEU. "I want to forget about this for now. I want to forget about everything." He shoved them into the table's drawer and sat back up, his hands settling on her bare thighs. Her stomach twisted. Jace touched his lips to her neck, leaving soft, tiny kisses behind, all the way to her chin. "I know we need to talk about this. I know we need to make some decisions, but we don't need to do it today. And, God, I just want to kiss you for awhile before you have to leave. Is that all right? Can I just kiss you?"

Clary closed her eyes, nodded, and threaded her fingers into his hair, the feelings of fear and unease floating away. "Just kiss?"

She felt him smile against her throat. "Maybe."

"Maybe?" She tightened her fingers in his hair, eliciting an "Ow" from him. "Don't you dare tease me, Jace Wayland, I told you the deal with pregnancy and super horny sluttiness. If you even insinuate it, you have to follow through. That's a rule."

"Is it? Funny, I've never heard that rule before."

"You're hearing it now." She bent and whispered in his ear, "Besides, I may or may not be wearing any underwear right now."

Jace's hands slipped up her legs, freezing when he reached the fabric of her shorts. Then Clary found herself on her back, Jace's golden eyes staring down at her. "Didn't anyone ever tell you it isn't nice to lie?" he said.

She blinked innocently. "Yes, I've been told that. But, technically, it wasn't a lie." She touched the waistband of the boxers and pulled them down a little, exposing more of her skin, but nothing beyond that. "See?"

Jace's eyes turned nearly black. "Yes," his voice cracked on the word, "Yes, I see."

Clary gave him a self-satisfied grin.

He leaned in until his mouth hovered over hers, and although they didn't touch, Clary could already taste him on her tongue. "I wouldn't be so smug, if I were you," he said, and fisted Clary's shirt, dipping down to murmur in her ear. "I'm _only_ wearing underwear, and you've got this on. I don't really think that's fair, do you?" Clary swallowed hard. "You should probably remove it before I rip it off—in the spirit of fairness, of course."

"Fairness, huh?"

"Mmhmm," he hummed against her throat as his lips followed her neck down to her collarbone. "You know how much I like being fair. Sportsmanship is highly important."

Oh, yes, she quite remembered. She struggled to keep her eyes from rolling back into her head at the way he was working her. "It's not my shirt, so do what you have to do."

Jace lifted his head and grinned the most wicked grin Clary had ever seen, causing chills to race up and down her spine. God, what he could do with just a smile . . .

"Just remember, you're the one who said it." Jace's grip tightened, and Clary only had time to draw in a quick breath before she felt the fabric give.

.o.O.o.

"Come on, Clary, he'll be here any second," Jace said, holding his hand out to her as she rushed around his room. His father had called fifteen minutes earlier, saying he was ten minutes outside of town and wondered if Jace wanted something from the diner for breakfast. He'd told him yes, just to stall for time, but even still, he knew there wasn't much. Especially when neither of them were dressed.

Clary ignored him, and he watched, amused, as she darted back and forth, lifting his blankets and looking under the nightstand. He had no idea what she was looking for. She'd arrived with nothing but the clothes on her back and a cell phone, and she'd made sure she had all of those. She lifted her hand to her head and scratched at her scalp, her face fixed into a scowl.

"Do you need some help?" he asked.

"I—I feel like I'm forgetting something." She started toward him, her face still turned to look at the room. "Am I forgetting something?"

When she reached him, Jace pulled her forward, eliciting a gasp from her lips, and pushed her gently back into the doorframe. "Yes," he said, dipping his head down. "This." His mouth touched hers and it was like the room had caught fire.

It wasn't a passionate kiss, just light and sweet, but it didn't seem to matter because his body responded the same regardless. Her hands slid up his arms, stopping just at his biceps and squeezing hard. She wiggled her hips a little and he pressed into her, remembering how it felt moments before when she was naked, how warm and soft and perfect she'd been underneath him, the piercing sound that ripped through the room as he'd torn his shirt from her body. Shit. He needed to stop now or he wouldn't be able to, and this was definitely not the way either of them wanted their parents to find out about them. Painfully, he pulled away and she whimpered quietly.

Jace rested his forehead against hers and swiped her lips with his thumb, feeling the wetness of his kiss still on her mouth. "You have to go."

"I know, but I just . . ."

"I know," he said, and he did. He knew. This wasn't like a normal relationship where they could just plan to see each other later or tomorrow or even next week. They had to take advantage of these moments when they came; there was no planning for them. And it seriously sucked ass. Jace should have been able to see his girl when he wanted. It wasn't supposed to be like this: all hiding and pretending and lying. He pressed a kiss to one cheek and then the other, before leaving a soft peck on her mouth. "We'll figure it out, okay?"

Clary nodded and Jace tucked his arm around her back, leading her out into the hall and down the stairs to the front door. As much as he didn't want her to go, he also had that nagging, crushing feeling of needing to get her out of there. His father would be back any moment now.

He opened the door and spied the dark car waiting outside the front gate. With a sigh, he turned back to Clary. She stood at his side, her eyes fixed on the car too, and her bottom lip caught between her teeth. She looked up at him, her brows pinched together, and he could feel her hesitancy to leave.

"Go," he said. "I'll call you later."

"Okay." She took one step, then turned, flung her arms around his neck and kissed him again. He smiled against her mouth.

"Or we could stand here kissing and let my father catch us. Whatever you want." Though Jace would never let that happen. He remembered his father's reaction to seeing them together at the school, the awful things he'd said to her. There was no way he wanted Clary around when his father found out about the two of them.

Clary pouted. "Fine. I'm going." But she didn't let him go and didn't stop kissing him until the obnoxious blaring of a horn startled her out of his arms.

Jace brushed his nose against hers, letting his lips swipe her mouth with the action. "I think that's your ride."

"Damn it," she cursed under her breath, resting her forehead against his chin. Her fingers curled into the hairs at the nape of his neck, and he felt the same desire inside him. The desire to just stay together, to just say screw it to everyone else and take their chances with their families' wrath. But he knew they couldn't yet. Not yet. "Okay, okay, I'm going," Clary said.

Jace let her go, and Clary turned away, making her way down the front steps. When she reached the bottom, she turned once more.

Jace met her eyes and grinned. "Bye, baby."

"Bye," she said, and then turned away from him and ran toward the gate.

Jace watched as she went, each step taking her farther and farther away. His chest tightened as she slipped through the gate and climbed into the car waiting for her. Not just because he didn't know when he would see her again, but also because he knew how close they'd been to getting caught. This was his father's customary way of telling Jace to "get the girl out of the house." His father wasn't stupid. He knew Jace had entertained girls in his home before—mostly Kaelie—and it wasn't that he minded, per se (as long as it wasn't during the season) he just didn't want to see them. Not for the first time, Jace was glad for his father's strange acceptance of his son's sex life.

Closing the door behind him, Jace rushed back up the stairs to finish dressing. He froze when he stepped over the threshold of his room. His normally meticulously made bed was a complete and utter disaster. His comforter lay in a white heap on the floor and his sheets were twisted, the bottom corner pulled up, exposing the mattress underneath. Jace moved forward, stopping only when he came upon the tattered remains of his very first varsity football t-shirt. He bent and lifted it into his hands.

Clary's laughter, as he'd torn the fabric from her body, back arched, throat exposed, flashed through his mind. He could still feel her fingers in his hair, her mouth on his neck, her legs wrapped around his waist, her hands as they'd cupped him outside his shorts, and inside as well. A shudder ripped through him, and he stood, shoving the shirt back into his drawer. He didn't care if it was ruined. The memories that would now be associated with it were worth keeping the shirt around.

Jace pulled a clean shirt out of his drawer and slipped it over his head before going over to his bed. As he stood there in the wreckage, his eyes fell on the evidence of what had occurred the night before. In the past, he'd always stripped his sheets and threw them in the wash immediately after anything happened in his bed. Sex was messy. Always. No exceptions. And it wasn't like he wanted to sleep on that shit, but this time . . . well, he didn't mind as much. This was Clary, and what they'd done was so much more than sex. It had never felt like that to Jace before, like an overwhelming explosion of feeling that practically stole his breath away.

And it wasn't just physically, although that was God-damn amazing too. Even though she was inexperienced—besides that night with him—somehow she'd known just how to touch him, just how to kiss him, just how to make him need her so much he literally shook with it. Her fumbling movements and the embarrassment, made apparent by the flush on her cheeks, just made it that much better, that much purer. There was none of that fake bullshit, none of the lies to make her seem like she knew what she was doing when she really didn't. It was all her: innocent, insecure, genuine. And maybe that's why it was so good. Because it was just her, and just him, and just them.

A very small part of him wanted to keep the "them" that still lingered there. Then he realized how disgusting that thought was and pulled the sheets off anyway—though he left the pillowcase Clary had slept on. As pathetic as it may have been, he couldn't bear to lose the scent of her all together.

He gathered the sheets and walked across the hall to the second floor laundry room. His clothes were usually washed by Maria, their housekeeper, but since she wasn't there on weekends—and he didn't want her dealing with his messy sheets—he threw the fabric in and started the wash. Grabbing a new set of sheets from the linen closet, he carried them back to his room and quickly made his bed.

Just as he finished, he heard the front door open and his father call out to him. He sighed and went to join his father downstairs, but when he passed the door to his father's office, a golden glint caught his eye from through the slivered opening. Pausing, he pushed the door the rest of the way open. Lining the back wall of the room was a shelf full of trophies and medals. Some were his father's from when he'd played ball, but most were Jace's. He recognized his last few MVP awards and several from Pee Wee football.

Stepping inside, a strange realization came over him. Clary was right; it _was_ strange that all of Jace's trophies were in here instead of in his own room. He had never thought about it before because this was just always where they'd gone. Whenever Jace won something, his father would take it straight away and set it on the shelf. Maybe it wouldn't have been so bad, but Jace really wasn't allowed to be in there—only when his father asked to speak to him in his office. This was his father's private space and not even Maria came in unless invited.

A shiver of anger danced down his spine. Those awards were his. _His._ He'd worked for them. He'd earned them. His father had no right to keep them there then tell Jace he wasn't allowed to come in. Determined, Jace moved forward, but his toe caught the edge of the small metal trashcan sitting next to the desk. It toppled over, an abundance of wadded up paper and several large envelopes spread across the floor.

"Shit." Jace bent to pick them up, pushing the paper wads back into the can, but pausing when he revealed the writing on one of the envelopes.

_Northern University. To: Mr. Jace Wayland. _

Jace picked it up. It felt thick and heavy in his grasp. Turning it over, he slid his finger under the flap and tore into the paper. Inside, there was a university catalogue and a letter. Jace unfolded the letter, his eyes scanning the print below.

_Dear Mr. Jace Wayland,_

_After receiving high recommendation from our athletic scout, Mr. Ronald Daley, we are pleased to offer you an athletic scholarship for Northern University . . ._

Jace's head spun. _What the hell was this shit?_ Glancing down, Jace noticed four more envelopes, varying in size. All addressed to him, and all from different universities. With shaking fingers he opened each one and each offered him the same deal. Six universities in all—including Southeast—had sent him a scholarship offer. Jace was having a hard time comprehending what he was seeing. Why didn't he know about these? Why were they in his father's trash? Why hadn't his father told—

A throat cleared behind him, and Jace's back stiffened.

"What are you doing in my office, son?"

Jace knew that voice, that calm, collected tone that really was not calm or collected at all. He stood slowly, keeping his back to his father. His fingers closed around the envelopes.

"I'm not going to ask you again, Jace."

Jace drew in a breath and turned. His father stood in the doorway, hands in front of him, eyes on his son. Jace held up the envelopes.

"What are these?"

His father's eyes slid lazily to the papers in Jace's hand then back up to his face. "Garbage. Which is why they were in the trash. Why were you going through my trash anyway?"

"I knocked it over on acci—what does it matter?" He shook his fist, the papers rustling noisily. "These are addressed to me. Why haven't I seen them?"

His father shrugged. "They were irrelevant."

Jace dropped his arm to his side. "Irrelevant? I got offers to play at all these places and you think that's irrelevant?"

"Yes. We got the offer we wanted. None of these mattered in comparison."

Jace's head felt like it was going to burst. "How long have you known about these?"

"A while. I saved them in case SEU backed out. When they didn't, I put them in the trash where they belonged."

Fury rolled in Jace's stomach. "And you didn't think I'd want to know about this?"

"Why would you?" his father asked, as though this really were no big deal. "SEU has been decided forever, Jace. It's what you wanted. It was the only choice. I didn't think you'd care—"

"It was decided by you!" Jace interrupted, unable to hold in his anger any longer. "Have you ever asked _me_ what _I_ wanted, Dad? Have you ever even thought that maybe I would be interested in any of these other schools?"

"Frankly, no." His father's tone still held that eerie calm. "I don't understand what this is about. For as long as I can remember, you've talked of nothing but SEU."

"No, that was you, Dad. You talked about SEU. I talked about nothing."

"This is ridiculous." Jace's father waved his hand in front of his face. "SEU is a done deal. You've accepted their offer, so that makes these null and void."

"I haven't accepted anything."

"What?" Finally, a hint of emotion played across his father's face. "What are you talking about?"

"The offer from SEU. I haven't signed it. I haven't accepted it."

And now the anger Jace knew was there took over his father's face. "What are you trying to do? Lose the offer all together? I told you SEU wouldn't wait! I told you they had other—"

"Then let them choose someone else! I don't give a sh—I don't care! If they want me so bad, they'll wait for me to decide, and if they don't, then they won't. This is my choice, Dad. Mine." He clutched the papers to his chest. "You should have given these to me. You should have let me make my own decision."

"What do you know about making choices? You haven't had to make a decision in your entire life."

"Well, that's going to change now."

Jace strode toward the door, trying to push past his father, when his father grabbed his arm. "Don't screw this up. You've worked too long and too hard for this for you to mess it up now. SEU is the only choice, Jace, the _only choice_. If your mother were here, she'd—"

"If my mother were here, she'd have given these to me." He held up the papers once more. "She'd trust me to make my own decisions about my future. She'd be proud of me for accomplishing what I have. She wouldn't be trying to force her own agenda on me. What is it that's so important about me going to SEU? Is it because it's Valentine Morgenstern's alma mater? Is it because I'd be taking his son's position? What the hell is the big deal?"

Rage simmered behind his father's eyes. "It has nothing to do with that man or his lame progeny! This is about you! About your talent! About what we deserve!"

_We._ Jace heard it, and his father knew he'd heard it.

His father tried to backtrack. "What you deserve. This is what you deserve."

But it was too late. Too late to change what had been said. Too late to change what had been done. Too late to go back and make all of this happen for the right reasons. Jace shook his head and finally pushed past his father. He didn't really know what he wanted to do or where he wanted to go, but he knew it couldn't be there.

"Jace!" his father called. "We're not finished. Come back here!"

Jace ignored him and continued down the stairs. In the front foyer he grabbed his jacket and keys off the table next to the door. God, where the hell was he going to go? He needed to talk to someone about all this, but whom? He wanted Clary, but in the same breath didn't. She had too many other things to worry about, and he honestly wanted to make this decision on his own. He needed an unbiased ear. Someone who could give him the advice he needed without consciously or unconsciously swaying his decision either way. Clary would never try to do it on purpose, but just looking at her, touching her, would make choosing that much more difficult. When he reached out for the door handle, he heard his father behind him.

"If you leave, don't even think about coming back tonight."

This time the anger erupted like a volcano. Jace spun, narrowing his eyes as he caught sight of his father. "This is _my_ house, Dad. Not yours. Mom was the heir, and when she died I was. So don't tell me not to come back to my house. If you don't want to be under the same roof with me, you can leave!" And with those last words, Jace turned back to the door, wrenched it open, and slammed it shut behind him.

.o.O.o.

Clary drummed her fingers uncomfortably the entire car ride home. She tried to seem nonchalant, like nothing had changed at all between when she'd seen Isabelle last until now. But she was pretty sure she wasn't pulling it off. How did she know? Because Isabelle was _not_ pelting her with question after question and was _whistling_ while driving. Isabelle did not whistle. Ever. And there was good reason for this. Isabelle couldn't whistle in tune. At all.

Clary tried to ignore it, but when she focused on anything else, her thoughts always brought her back to what she and Jace had discussed that morning. She clenched her fists at her sides. She didn't want to think about that, didn't want to acknowledge it. There was more time, a little more time before she had to . . .

The horrid excuse for music seemed to get louder and louder the further they drove, and then Isabelle started humming. Finally, Clary couldn't take it anymore.

"All right! Just ask already. God, you don't need to continue to torture me."

Isabelle turned to face Clary, a large pair of sunglasses covering her eyes and her lips pursed as if she were going to start whistling again any second. "Ask what?"

"You know what." Clary glared. "You want me to tell you what happened last night."

Isabelle shrugged. "Do not."

"Yes, you do. Don't lie."

"I totally don't," Isabelle said, turning back to the road. "Besides, I already know."

"Oh, you do, huh?"

"Yep."

"So, what was I doing then?"

Isabelle glanced back at Clary. "Taking a ride on the Jace train."

Clary's mouth dropped open, and Isabelle shook her head.

"Don't even try to deny it. You totally popped your secondary cherry."

"Why would you—"

"Your hair," Isabelle said, matter-of-factly. "I could tell the second I saw you. That," she pointed at Clary's head, "is not regular bed head, that's total sex hair."

"It is not sex hair!" She ran her hand down the back of her head, feeling several knots and a whole lot of frizz. "And besides, you can get so-called 'sex hair' from making out too."

"True, but you don't smell like sex unless you've had sex."

"I don't smell like sex!"

"Uh, yeah, you do."

"I—I don't want to talk about this, Izzy."

"Fine by me," Isabelle said, a small smirk playing at the edges of her lips. "You're the one that brought it up. I was content to just enjoy the quiet ride home."

Clary huffed and turned away, feeling how hot her face was and not wanting to think about how she looked or . . . smelled. God, did she really smell like sex? As discretely as she could, she lifted the front of her shirt to her nose and tried to sniff down the front. Isabelle snickered, and Clary dropped the shirt, crossing her arms over her chest and turning as far away from her friend as physically possible.

Several minutes later, Isabelle pulled into Clary's driveway and cut the engine. Clary scrambled to undo her seatbelt with the intention of bolting out of the car so fast Isabelle wouldn't even be able to see her. But before she could, she felt Izzy's hand on her thigh. It was a soft, gentle touch.

"Clary?"

Clary swallowed and met her friend's gaze.

Isabelle had lifted her sunglasses and they were now perched on the crown of her head. "I'm not going to ask you what happened, because, as much as you may think I need to know all the juicy gossip, I realize that this . . . this was special for you, and I'm not going to make you talk about it if you don't want to. But I just want to know one thing, okay? Just one thing and we can be done talking about it until you want to."

Clary nodded. "Okay."

"Was he . . . was he good to you this time? I mean, he didn't hurt you again, did he?"

Clary felt her defenses fall and she took in an unsteady breath. "No. He didn't hurt me. He was very . . . he was very . . . careful with me, Iz."

"Good," Izzy said, and turned back to the windshield, replacing her sunglasses over her eyes. "I really didn't want to have to kick his ass. The jerk is sort of growing on me."

Clary laughed. "He's sort of growing on me too." She paused. "Thanks, Iz. For dropping everything to come and get me, and for . . . for not pushing me to tell you. I'm just . . ." She shrugged. "I don't know."

"No problem. Besides, I fully intend to call you—once you get your license—to come get me from the house of my latest booty call someday too. You owe me."

"Okay. We have a deal." She climbed out of the car, and bent in one last time, furrowing her brows. "Do I really smell like sex?"

Isabelle threw her head back and cackled loudly. Clary closed the door, and she could still hear her friend two houses away. With a sigh, Clary turned and trudged up the front steps, wanting nothing more than to take a shower, eat, then nap. She hadn't had much sleep the night before, not that she was complaining or anything, but she was starving and freaking exhausted.

The door opened with a creak and Clary entered, expecting the front room to be empty—her father never sat up there and much preferred his office or the informal living room—but it wasn't. On the normally unused white suede couch sat her mother.

Clary froze in surprise. "Mom?"

Her mother stood, her posture straight and confident, but her eyes—mirrors of Clary's—spoke to how nervous she was. "I know you're mad at me, sweetheart, and it may have taken me a couple of weeks to understand why, but now I do. I—" Her mother fidgeted—something Clary had never seen her do before. "I . . . I wondered if maybe we could talk. Just us. Like we used to?"

Clary swallowed back the tightness gathering in her throat. "I just got back from—from Isabelle's, and I need to take a shower. Plus, I'm starving. I don't think—"

"We could go out, then? To the diner?" The look on her mother's face was so hopeful, so desperate, even though Clary was still mad, could still feel the icy chill of her anger in her veins, she decided maybe she could give her mother just this one chance.

"Okay."

All the tension in her mother's face fell and her mouth curved into a smile. She stepped forward, her arms swung wide as if she wanted a hug, but Clary moved back. Her mother halted. Not only was Clary afraid she actually did smell like sex, but she wasn't sure she wanted her mother to touch her. Things weren't okay, they were far from it, and she didn't want to give her mother the impression they were.

"I'll just," Clary scooted around her mother, giving the woman a wide berth, before darting to the doorway to the hall, "go shower and I'll be back."

Her mother nodded, hurt staining a blush on her cheeks. "Okay. Take your time. I'm not going anywhere."

Clary turned and started toward the stairs, thinking about the words her mother had said: _I'm not going anywhere. _And a large part of her wished, more than anything, that her mother could say those words and actually mean them.

.o.O.o.

Jace picked at the remaining bits of his sweet potato fries. The diner was somewhat full, but not so much that it made him feel stifled. He sat in the very back, corner booth, his back to the room purposefully in case someone from school came and tried to strike up a conversation with him. He wasn't in the mood to talk. He wasn't in the mood to do anything but sit there and brood until Sebastian showed up.

The acceptance letters sat in a pile to his right. He'd gone through them once more, reading each word over and over again until he had nearly every one memorized. It wasn't a secret that his father had always pushed the idea of SEU on him, and Jace had never questioned it. Why hadn't he questioned it? Maybe it was just because he really didn't care where he went as long as he went to play football. Or maybe he just wanted his father to be happy. To be pleased. Lowering his face into his hands, Jace let out a loud sigh.

Shit.

He didn't know what to do. He still felt this undeniable pull toward SEU, still felt the desire to complete a dream that had been in the works for so long he couldn't remember having another. But what he didn't know was if it was his dream or his father's. Somewhere the lines between what were his thoughts and his father's had become blurred.

And then there was Clary. God, Clary. And the baby. And . . . and it was too much for him to think through and decide on his own. Too much.

"Dude, are you crying?" Sebastian's voice came from behind him. "Because, you know I don't deal with that shit."

Jace turned and glared at his best friend. "I don't know why I bother calling your ass for anything."

"I'm not sure why you called my ass either. It doesn't talk—well, except for after I eat burritos."

"Jesus Christ." Jace scrubbed his hands over his face.

"Oh, chill, I'm just messing with you. You look like someone ran over your cat."

"You did run over my cat."

"That was two years ago. Jesus, don't you forget anything?"

Jace crossed his arms over his chest and stared out the window behind Sebastian. The sun was still shining, but clouds were gathering in the north. Quite poetic and appropriate, he thought. After a moment, he glanced back at his friend. "Do you think you can be semi-serious for a minute?"

"Maybe for a minute."

"I'm not kidding, Seb. I—I need to talk this through with someone and I need you to not crack asinine jokes."

The mask that Sebastian always wore, the one that made no one take him seriously, the one that made everything and everyone into a joke, slipped away. "Damn, man, yeah. What the hell's going on?"

Jace thrust his hand into his hair, before taking in a breath and pushing the stack of papers toward Sebastian.

Seb gave Jace a strange look, then carefully glanced down at the letters in front of him. Jace watched as Sebastian's brows furrowed, then rose, then his eyes widened. He flipped the first over and read the second, then the third, then the forth, then the fifth. When he finished, he sat there for a few moments, staring down at the table, not moving, not speaking.

To clarify, Jace said, "I also have one from SEU at home."

"Holy shit, dude," Sebastian finally said. "How—what—why do you look so torn up about this? It's God-damn awesome!"

Jace reached forward and slid the letters back to himself. "Yeah . . ."

"Why don't you seem more excited? I mean, damn, that's six schools that want you to play. I don't get it."

"Because you don't know everything," Jace said, quietly, maybe not even purposefully.

"What do you mean? What else is there to know?"

Jace swallowed and glanced back up at Sebastian. They'd been friends for years, for as long as Jace could remember and were probably closer than brothers, but he still hesitated. How would he react if he knew about Clary, about what happened between them at the party? Jace wasn't worried that Sebastian would tell, but he was worried about something. Should he tell him? It would be such a relief to tell someone . . .

"Jace?"

The sound of his name startled him. Sebastian never called him by his name. It was always dude or asshole or douchebag, not Jace. Never Jace.

"What's going on?" Sebastian leaned forward in his chair and rested his elbows on the table. "Are you in some sort of trouble or something?"

Jace chuckled a disbelieving chuckle and shook his head. "You could say that." Sebastian raised a brow and Jace sighed, leaning forward as well, after glancing around to make sure no one else was listening. "Okay, but . . . you can't tell anyone. Got it? Not your sister or . . . anyone."

"Yeah . . . Okay."

Jace drew in a breath, held it for a few seconds, then exhaled. "You remember the party a few months ago. The one I met Clary at?"

"You mean the one you devoured her face for an hour at? Yeah."

"I, uh," Jace looked around again, "I might have let you think things were a little more . . . casual . . . than they were . . ."

"Meaning . . ."

"Meaning . . ." Jace swept his hand in front of him to indicate he meant _more._

"Oh," Sebastian said. "Oh! So you and she and . . . ohhhhh."

"Yeah, so . . ." Jace paused, uncomfortable telling Sebastian any of this. It wasn't like he hadn't bragged about other sexual experiences. Shit, Sebastian probably knew every place that made Kaelie moan as well as Jace did. He was a dude and dudes had to look cool in front of other dudes, and that included boasting about how virile they were. But with Clary he didn't want to brag, didn't want to use what they had together as some sort of measurement for how studly he was.

"Okay, so . . . you got it on with Shortcake—Dude, though, seriously, not in my bed, right?"

"No! I did not have sex in your bed!" Jace said a little too loudly. A couple of old ladies a few tables over glared at the two boys then returned to their meals. A few other snickers and whispers echoed around them.

"Okay, damn. Just calm the hell down." Sebastian sat back into his chair. "What's the big deal? What does you and Shortcake boinking have to do with any of—"And then it was like the light bulb inside his mind clicked on. His face paled. "Dude. You're not saying . . . you didn't . . . she's not . . ." He discreetly mimed a bump over his stomach.

Jace couldn't even confirm it; he just lowered his head and closed his eyes.

"Holy fu—"

"Can I get you anything else?" A waitress appeared out of nowhere, startling Jace into opening his eyes. Sebastian continued to stare at Jace, his eyes wide and unblinking.

"No," Jace said. "We're good."

The waitress smiled and winked as she turned to walk away.

Jace turned back to his friend. Sebastian's mouth was open as if he wanted to say something but didn't know how to talk. Finally he managed, "Dude . . ." And there was a note of sympathy and a whole lot of disbelief to his tone.

As much as Jace hated pity, he felt somewhat better having told someone. This whole time he'd been holding it inside, afraid he might slip up and say something to the wrong person in the wrong way.

"So," Sebastian said, "this kind of explains why you're freaking out about . . ." he gestured to the papers on the table. "What the hell are you going to do?"

Jace shook his head. "I have no God-damn idea. That's kind of why I—"

The tinkling of the bell over the diner door sounded, and along with it came a very familiar giggle. Jace's entire body tensed at the sound. He and Sebastian both turned toward the door at the same time, although Jace already knew what he'd see.

Clary stood near the front of the café, dressed in new clothes from what she'd been in that morning, and her hair pulled back into a ponytail. Beside her was a woman. A woman Jace could only assume was her mother, as she had the same bright red hair and striking green eyes. He knew he should look away, shouldn't let himself get caught up in looking at Clary, but he couldn't help it. Suddenly, Clary's eyes caught his and hers widened. He tried not to react, not to make it look like his gaze was anything more than a curious glance. But when Clary's mother looked up, a strange expression came over her face, and she nudged Clary lightly in the side and nodded toward where Jace and Sebastian sat.

"Shit." He turned away quickly, noticing Sebastian's hand in the air in a half wave. "Dude! What the hell?" He reached over and pushed his friend's hand back down. "What are you trying to do?"

"What?" Sebastian asked. "I was just saying hi—oh. Shit. Well, straighten up because they're coming this way."

"God-damn it, Seb!" Jace felt his heart slamming in his chest. It shouldn't have been a big deal to see Clary in public. He'd done it before. He'd pretended before. But not since he'd told her what he'd told her. Not since he'd held her and touched her and kissed her like he had last night. And never had he done it in front of their parents—besides when he first found out who she was. This time he wasn't so sure he could hide it, if he could fake not wanting to pull her into him and kiss her again, if he could pretend he didn't know how every inch of her felt under his fingers and against his mouth.

A throat cleared behind them, and Jace took in a breath, closed his eyes briefly, then turned. Clary and her mother stood just behind them, her mother smiling politely and Clary's face devoid of all color. She honestly looked like she was going to puke. Jace swallowed and tried to avoid her eyes. If he looked at her, he knew it would show on his face. Everything. What he felt. What they'd done. What he still wanted and planned on doing.

"Hello," Clary's mother said, her smile still there, her face open and so, so much like Clary's it was hard not to stare. "Are you two friends of Clary's?"

Jace chanced a peek at Clary, and how much they _weren't_ friends was written all over the red hue engulfing her face.

This was not good. This was not God-damn good at all.

* * *

><p><em>Sorry for the cliffy, it couldn't be helped. ;)<em>

_Thank you to everyone who is reading and reviewing. I love reading your words. I apologize for not responding to every one. Please just know that I read them and appreciate them all so much._

_Until next time, XOXO ~ddpjclaf_


	18. Words Unneeded

****The character names of The Mortal Instruments are owned by Cassandra Clare. The original content, ideas and intellectual property of this story are owned by ddpjclaf, 2011. Please do not copy, reproduce, or translate without express written permission.****

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Eighteen - "Words Unneeded"<strong>

_*****PLEASE READ*** **Because I get *so many*PMs and questions about this, I'd just like to reiterate it here: 9Cs has NO updating schedule. I said from the beginning that I would update this when I could, which basically means: once I finish a chapter. It does not update every week or every two weeks or every month; there is NO set date. I have not abandoned the story, have no plans to abandon it. Sometimes life gets busy (with 4 kids and a hubby, I hope that's understandable), and sometimes the words don't flow. I want to do my best, so please have patience when it seems to take awhile. Rest assured, I will update when the chapter is finished!_

_**Slight citrus warning**  
><em>

_Thank you to LLWB for your beta-ing skills. :D _

_Chapter Songs:_

_**Make This Go On Forever – Snow Patrol _

_**Echo – Jason Walker_

_**Big Girls Don't Cry – Fergie _

_**Beautiful Disaster (live) – Kelly Clarkson (only listen-and I highly recommend you listen from when Clary sees Jace in scene 3 to the end, it was what I listened to while writing, and the emotion is phenomenal, as are the lyrics-to the live version…the original doesn't work for this)_

* * *

><p>"<em>Are you two friends of Clary's?"<em>

Oh, God.

Clary stood, frozen, in a diner full of people, but feeling completely and entirely alone. This couldn't be happening; she must have been having a dream, a nightmare, really. She wasn't here, in this public place, with her mother at her side and her forbidden boyfriend looking up at her, his eyes begging the same question as her: _How am I supposed to pretend I don't know you?_

And the question just about did her in, because she couldn't look at him and pretend she didn't know him. She was sure the lie would be more than obvious by the shallowness of her breath, the burning in her cheeks, the way her body instinctually leaned toward him. Maybe her mother wouldn't even have to see any of those things; maybe she could feel in the air just how well her daughter knew this boy.

Clary's entire being remembered how Jace had held her just a couple of hours before, how he'd touched her, the things he'd said as he did. Private things, beautiful things, sexy things. She recalled the way his breath warmed her neck when he'd whispered his wants in her ear, the vibrations of his later pleas as they were murmured and groaned into her skin, and how his hands had gripped her so tight, fingers digging into her flesh and possessing her body the way he already did her heart.

An unintentional choked gasp came from her throat, and her mother peered over at her.

"Clary? Are you all right?"

She faked a cough and banged her fist on her chest in a lame attempt to distract her mother from the real source of her obvious distress. "Yeah, I just . . . uh, had a tickle . . . in my throat."

"You sure?" Her mother looked at her doubtfully and did the most embarrassing thing ever: she pressed the back of her hand to Clary's cheek and then her forehead. "You look flushed. Are feeling okay?"

Now it was Jace's turn to fake-cough as he tried to hide his own discomfort. As soon as Clary's mother looked away, Clary glared at Jace, and though his face remained passive, she could tell by his eyes that he knew. He knew what her flush meant, knew the difference between when she was embarrassed and when she was . . . other.

Thankfully, the tension was broken when Sebastian stood, leaned across the table, and extended his hand to Clary's mother. "Actually, I know Clary through her friend Isabelle. I'm Sebastian."

Clary's mother took Sebastian's hand, a bit hesitant, but gracious all the same. "Oh, well, it's nice to meet you. I'm Jocelyn, Clary's mother."

"Nice to meet you too," Sebastian grinned, and Clary could see what Isabelle saw in him. He could be charming when he wanted to.

Then Clary's mother's gaze flitted to Jace and a strange sort of recognition crossed her features. Jace just looked up at her, not saying a single word. Clary wondered if he was afraid or in some sort of shock, but then Sebastian said, "This is my friend, Jace."

And it was as if it all clicked for Clary's mother. "Wayland," she said. "Jace Wayland."

He nodded once. "Yes, ma'am."

"I thought you looked familiar. I knew your mother in school. I was sorry to hear about her passing." She studied him for a moment. "You have her eyes."

Clary saw Jace's throat move, but he didn't respond. There was a flash of pain in his eyes, one that probably not many people would have noticed—it was there and gone so fast—but she saw it.

Clary's mother extended her hand to Jace now and smiled: soft, kind. "It's nice to meet you, Jace."

Jace stared at her mother's hand for a moment as if he wasn't quite sure what to do with it, before he stood, his long body unfolding slowly. At full height, he towered a full head above both of them. Tentatively, he took Clary's mother's hand and said, "You too."

Clary peered up at him and let herself, for that infinitesimal second in time when her mother's focus wasn't on her, really look. There was something more going on with him—something different from this morning. His eyes were tight, stressed, and his entire body seemed to emit an unfamiliar anxiousness. Clary tried to tell herself it was just this awkward meeting, but something about that felt off. Uneasy prickles crawled up her spine and scattered across her skin.

Jace let go of Clary's mother's hand and stepped back to his seat, but when he went to sit, his arm brushed over a stack of papers Clary hadn't noticed earlier, and sent them fluttering to the floor. A look of mild panic crossed his face as he bent to gather them back up, at the same time Clary's mother did.

She scooped up a couple and just as she went to hand them over to Jace, she paused. Her fingers grasped the papers lightly and a small smile lifted the corners of her mouth. "Oh, my—"

But before she had the chance to finish what she was saying, Jace snatched the papers out of her hand, his cheeks blazing red. Clary blinked at the sight, never having seen him look so uncomfortable before. Her gaze darted to the papers once more, but he'd succeeded in rolling them up and hiding any of the print. What were they, and why did he seem so protective of them?

Jace slid back into his seat and kept his head down, refusing to look up at Clary or her mother again. She just needed his eyes for a second, just one second so she could see in them what was happening, but he refused to look. Instead, he glanced over at Sebastian and Sebastian's brows rose in understanding. Jace still held the papers rolled up in his hands, and Clary saw the way his fingers were squeezing and releasing them, as if he were trying to rub them out of existence.

"Jocelyn?" a voice called from behind Clary and her mother.

They turned to find a light-haired woman with a gentle smile sitting a couple tables back. Clary's mother retuned the smile and then said to her daughter, "I'll be right back, okay?"

Clary could do nothing but nod. She felt like there was something stuck in her throat, like even if she tried to speak nothing would come out but a bunch of squeaks and grunts. Her mother crossed to the table and hugged the woman. Clary had no idea who this person was; she'd never seen her before in her life, but her mother seemed to know her quite well.

"Way to go, you two," Sebastian said, and Clary turned back around in time to see him lean back into his chair and interlock his hands behind his head. "Way to not look awkward and weird."

Jace threw a shriveled piece of fry at him.

"I'm sorry," Clary said. "I didn't know you'd be here, and then Sebastian waved and she—" Clary noticed Sebastian studying her, his brows furrowed and his eyes on her abdomen. "What—what are you doing? Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Trying to see if I can tell. Dude," he looked at Jace, "I can't see anything."

Jace groaned, and it took Clary a few seconds to realize what he meant. "Trying to see—" She whipped her head toward Jace. An irrational flare of anger shot through her. "You told him? Why did you tell him?" Her voice came out in an accusing hiss.

Finally, Jace's gaze met hers. "What? I'm not allowed to tell my best friend? You told yours."

"I—" Clary's mouth hung open for a moment as she tried to grasp the right words. "That's—that's not what I meant."

"Isn't it?"

"No. I—I just—Izzy was with me when I found out and . . ."

"And what?" he demanded, and Clary could see now that the off feeling she'd been getting from him was anger. "You're not the only one in this, Clary. You're not the only one this affects, and you're not the only one who needs someone to talk to sometimes."

"But we talk. We—"

Jace looked away from her and stared at the wall. "Sometimes I need someone else to talk to besides just you."

She knew what he meant, but it hurt all the same.

"Oh, wow. Awkward lovers' spat is awkward," Sebastian said, and grasped a pair of headphones from his pocket, shoving them into his ears. "I'm just going to be over here, pretending I don't know you for the duration of this quarrel."

Clary stood still for a moment, her fists clenching and unclenching at her side. She wasn't quite sure what to do or say. She knew she had no right to be upset that Jace had told Sebastian, knew it in her heart, but she was still angry and embarrassed. And she could understand that Jace might be frustrated with her for the same reasons, but this didn't seem like that. It didn't even seem like this was a reaction to meeting her mom either. It seemed like something more. "What's wrong with you? Did I do something in the time we've been apart to piss you off?"

"No." Jace blew out a breath and thrust his hand into his hair. "It's nothing."

"It doesn't feel like nothing."

"I'm just . . . I was already pissed off and then you . . ." He closed his eyes and twisted the papers in his hands again. "Never mind. I said it's nothing."

Clary pointed at the papers in his hands. "Do those have anything to do with why you're pissed?"

Jace tapped them against his palm and started to speak, when Clary's mother interrupted.

"Clary? I'd like you to meet someone."

Clary closed her eyes briefly, then faced her mom. The woman from before stood next to her mother, gentle smile and soft blue eyes focused on Clary.

"Sweetheart, this is my friend, Amatis. We met at one of my art shows a few years ago. She's actually Luke's sister."

Amatis stretched out her hand and clasped Clary's warmly between hers. "It's so nice to finally meet you. Your mother has told me so much about you. Oh—"

Amatis' gaze flitted to the front of the diner, and Clary and her mother followed it. A tall, fair-haired man moved toward them, and there was something about the way he moved, something about the way he looked, that was strangely recognizable to her.

"Sorry I'm late," the man said, as he stopped next to Amatis and leaned in to kiss her on the cheek. "Traffic was terrible in the city." And then he turned and grinned at Clary and her mother. Clary's stomach clenched at the familiarity of it, of the way only one corner of his mouth lifted and how his eyes glinted with a certain sort of mischievousness, even though they still seemed sincere. She could not shake the feeling that she knew this man.

"Stephen," Clary's mother said, "I'd like you to meet my daughter, Clarissa. Clary, this is Amatis's husband, Stephen Herondale."

Stephen smiled politely and held out his hand to her. "Nice to meet you, finally."

Something clicked in her mind. Stephen Herondale. Clary knew that name—somehow—she just couldn't pinpoint how. She reached out to take his hand, when she heard the loud screech of a chair being pushed across the floor. Something hard bumped into her back and she turned, just in time to see Jace—now on his feet—reach over and pull the ear buds from Sebastian's ears.

"We're leaving," he said, his voice oddly strained.

Clary wanted to say something to him, to find out why he was rushing off, and then she noticed his hands. They were shaking, just slightly, but enough. Her gaze lifted to his face, and even though he didn't look at her, she could see how pale he'd grown, as if every drop of color had seeped out of his pores and evaporated into the air. He moved past her, his head down, eyes purposefully not looking in her direction, and Sebastian followed, the look on his face just as confused as Clary felt. She watched the boys go until the door had closed behind them and the tinkling of the bell overhead stopped. Slowly, she turned back to her mother, and it was then she noticed the look on Stephen Herondale's face: confusion mixed with . . . something Clary couldn't identify. And then it hit her. Hit her so hard she couldn't believe she'd ever forgotten.

"Oh, God," she said, lifting her hand to cover her mouth. She knew exactly why Stephen Herondale seemed familiar, why his name and his smile and his walk had tickled her subconscious, and why his presence had made Jace flee like a cat being chased by a rhino.

He was Jace's biological father.

"Clary?" her mother said. "Is everything all right?"

"I—" Clary glanced at the door, then back at her mother, at Stephen's face, his eerily similar face. "I—"

"Honey?"

"I—" Clary couldn't concentrate on her mother, on Amatis, on Stephen. The only thing she could do was stare at the door, stare at it and feel the overwhelming urge to go to it, to go to Jace. Screw what her mother thought, screw everyone else, she'd seen his expression, knew what it meant. "I'm sorry," she said, looking at her mother. "Could you just excuse me for a minute?"

And then she left her mother standing there, mouth open, eyes on her daughter, as Clary rushed after Jace and Sebastian. She nearly tripped twice over random people's feet and bags, but within several seconds made it to the door. Pulling it open, she rushed out onto the sidewalk. A chilly gust swept across the parking lot, lifting her hair and throwing it back into her face. The sky had turned a dark shade of gray and Clary could smell rain in the air. She brushed her hair away and scanned the lot, looking for any trace of Jace or Sebastian but saw none.

"Damn," she said to herself, as she dug into her bag for her phone. Once she found it, she typed out a message.

_Are you okay?_

Silence. Clary stood there for a couple of minutes, only her, the wind, and her beating heart. Was he still angry with her? Is that why he wouldn't answer? She tried again.

_Jace, please. Just tell me you're okay and I'll leave you alone if that's what you want._

Again, no answer. Clary closed her eyes and brought her phone to her forehead. God, why did she have to get so pissy with him about telling Sebastian? Of course he needed someone else to talk to. How would Clary have gotten through any of this without Isabelle? Now he was going to shut her out. He was going to ignore her and—

Her phone rang and buzzed against her head. Clary nearly dropped it on the sidewalk. She cursed under her breath and fumbled with it until her hands steadied. Once she had herself and it under control, she clicked accept. He spoke before she could.

"That's not what I want," was all he said.

Clary leaned her head against the building. "Are you okay?"

She heard him breathing, but he didn't respond.

"Jace?"

"Yeah. I'm okay."

He said the words, but his voice, the slight waver she detected, said that he was lying.

"I'm sorry about before. I shouldn't have gotten upset. I just—I have no excuse. I'm just sorry."

"It's okay. I get it."

He was so far away. Not just in distance, but him, his mind, his heart. "I didn't know who he was," Clary whispered. "I didn't remember."

Jace exhaled on the other end, but again he didn't speak.

"I should have remembered."

"I don't want to talk about him," Jace said, and Clary's breath caught, an involuntary squeak escaping her throat. Jace sighed, and his voice grew soft. "It's not you, okay? It's—I need to think about some . . . things, and I . . . I need to do it alone."

"Okay," she said, and wanted to punch herself for sounding so weak, so hurt. But she couldn't help it. She wanted to be there for him, and it killed her to know he didn't want her.

As if he knew what she was thinking, he said, "I just—I need to figure some things out, and I'm not going to be in a very good mood until I do. And I don't want to take it out on you, so I just need to hang up now, because I'm a superior asshole when I'm like this."

"Jace . . ."

"God, baby, please? I love you, okay? I love you. Even when I'm being a dick, even when I'm angry, even when I'm running away like a God-damn pussy, I love you. Can you just remember that for me?"

Clary nodded, even though he couldn't see her. "Yeah," she said.

"Tell me," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I'll remember."

"Not that," and this time it was a whisper, "_Tell me_, Clary."

And then she knew what he wanted, what he needed to hear. "You already know how I feel about you, Jace."

"Tell me anyway."

Clary closed her eyes and chewed on her lower lip. Even though she did, and he knew she did, it was still difficult for her to say.

"Clary?"

"I love you. You know I love you."

There was silence on the other end, and when he spoke, his voice was soft. "I'll call you later."

And then he was gone, and it was just her and the wind and her heart again.

Clary stood there for a moment, staring at the phone in her hand. She was so confused. What did he need to figure out? Did it have to do with those papers? Or did it have to do with sorting through his own feelings about seeing his biological father? He'd said it had nothing to do with her, so she had to assume it had nothing to do with the baby either. Right?

Somehow, she didn't believe her own logic. With a sigh, she shoved her phone into her pocket and turned back toward the diner, not at all expecting the surprise waiting for her. Clary yelped and grabbed at her chest, as she came face to face with her mother. Jocelyn stood only a few feet away, her arms crossed over her chest, and her eyes glued on her daughter.

"M—mom, what—how long have you been standing there?"

Her mother eyed her, the expression on her face not one Clary could identify. "Long enough." She reached out to her daughter with one hand and grasped the handle to the diner door with the other. "I think it's time to get a few things off our chests. Starting with how you were clearly misleading me about how well you know the Wayland boy."

.o.O.o.

Jace's hands were still shaking against his steering wheel fifteen minutes later. After hanging up with Clary, he'd dodged a call from Sebastian—a dick move considering he'd run out of the diner, hopped in his car, and drove off without even a tiny explanation to his friend—and just continued to drive. He drove and drove and drove. No destination in mind. Nowhere to go. It was just him and the road and his thoughts. Jace wished his thoughts would die, disappear from his mind and give him some God-damn peace. But that was too much to ask, apparently.

As if he hadn't had enough to think about already, he'd had to see that man. Had to see him in the flesh, smiling and being happy and not noticing in the least that the son he'd abandoned sat right in his eye line. Jace had seen Stephen Herondale's eyes fix on his for a moment, but then they'd just drifted away, unknowing, or unwilling to know.

Jace gripped the wheel tightly as he drove past the park for the third time, his knuckles turning white with strain. It was completely deserted, empty swings and the nets of lonely soccer goals moving in the increasing breeze, the sky covered with dark, ominous looking clouds. Not even a peek of sun breaking through now. Where was he going? What was he doing? He had no damn idea. He didn't want to go home and deal with his father. He couldn't have Clary, couldn't be at the diner at all because of Stephen Herondale's taint on it, couldn't explain any of what was going on in his head to Sebastian since he'd never told him about Stephen anyway. He was alone. All alone with all these thoughts and feelings.

It was all too much, so much that his mind felt like a giant, bottomless precipice, and he was standing at the edge of it, staring down into the swirling mass of shit that was his life and screaming for someone, anyone to pull him back away from it. But no one came. No one ever came. No one looked long enough or hard enough to see that he was breaking. Breaking and spilling onto the ground and disappearing, grasping and choking, into the earth. And he had to wonder, even if they did look, if they did see, would they care?

There was only so much he could give Clary or Sebastian, the only two people in his life he could trust. But Sebastian, as good of a friend as he was, didn't understand, couldn't understand. Jace had only let him see what he needed to see. Sebastian knew Jace's father was hard on him in football, but he didn't know the stuff about college, didn't know the extent of the feud between the Waylands and Morgensterns. And he didn't know how much Jace felt for Clary.

Clary . . . just thinking about her made Jace's chest simultaneously constrict and expand. An impossible likelihood, but that's how it felt all the same. She understood more than anyone else. But she was also the last one he wanted to burden with all of this extra shit. She didn't need this on top of everything happening in her life. Jace knew she wanted to help, knew it pissed her off when he shut her out, but he didn't want to add to her stress. She was trying to deal with her parents, her friends; she was pregnant with his child. His child . . .

Jace pulled over and put his car in park before resting his forehead on the steering wheel. He closed his eyes and took in a few deep, slow breaths. The tight, smothering feeling in his chest was still there and wasn't showing any signs of dissipating. All he wanted was a minute, maybe two, to just feel normal again. To not worry about college or feuds or babies or long lost fathers. He wanted to be eighteen, to enjoy his success, his life, his girl. Why the hell did it all have to be so damn complicated?

A loud peel of thunder caused him to look up, and it took him a moment to register where he was. Large iron gates and numerous curved stones stretched out in front of him. He'd been so caught up in his head he hadn't realized he'd driven there. It was the last place he should have gone in his current state, but he couldn't deny the compulsion to stay, to see her.

Grabbing his jacket from the passenger seat, he stepped out of the car. Rain laced wind blew across the open space, causing goosebumps to spread over his skin, and he quickly put on his jacket. His feet moved him forward, down the worn path he could have followed blindfolded. After only a few moments, he stood before the stone, not needing to read the name on the front to know he was at the right one. He recognized the nearly bare oak tree to the right and the cracked planter—containing the crumpled remains of the flowers he'd brought the last time he'd visited—to the left.

Jace pushed his hands into his pockets and stared down at the stone, the etched letters spelling out his mother's name, still-green grass that was a little too long lining the bottom edge. Another chilly gust whipped across the landscape, throwing his hair across his face and into his eyes. He didn't bother to swipe it away and instead let the strands tickle his cheeks and momentarily cloud his vision.

Usually when he came there, he made sure to wall off his feelings, box them up and bury them under several feet of sarcasm and nonchalance and manliness. But this time they were right there on the surface, pushing up against the fragile boundary separating them from the outside world. He could feel them, their insistent thumps, the scratching, splitting pounds against the one shield he had left. His heart raced, his hands still trembled in the confined space of his jeans pockets, his throat tightened, but it wasn't just sadness or loneliness or the dozen other feelings he expected to try to break their way free. There was also anger. So much anger. He could feel it boiling up around the others, nearly incinerating them with its destructive heat.

He pulled his hands from his pockets and dug his nails into his palms, hoping maybe that would help stifle some of the emotion threatening to overwhelm him. It didn't work. It was still there and building the longer he stood there. If he thought it would help to leave, he would, but somehow, he knew it wouldn't. Instead, he took in a breath, the air shuddering slightly against his lips.

"Do you remember," he said, his voice so rough it sounded as if he hadn't used it in years, "when I used to be afraid of thunder? I used to think it was some sort of demon or monster trying to break into the house and take me away." He smiled slightly at his stupid, smaller self. "You'd always come into my room with that battery-powered lantern, set it on my nightstand, and tell me it was a magic lamp that would protect my room from any 'thunder-monster' that wanted in. I never believed you and begged you to stay with me anyway, because somehow I knew you could protect me when magic couldn't. Do you remember what you'd say? Whenever I asked?" Jace swallowed. "You'd say, 'Of course I'll stay. I'll stay as long as you need me to.' And then I'd say, 'I need you to stay forever.'"

Another loud boom echoed overhead, followed by several flashes and another rumble. "But you didn't stay forever. You lied, Mom. You lied when you said you'd stay as long as I needed, because you left and I still needed you. I need you now."

Jace thrust his hand into his hair, holding back the rogue strands that kept slipping into his stinging eyes.

"You were all I had in the world and you left me here alone." His throat was so tight he could hardly swallow. The anger he'd held inside for the last five years could no longer be contained. "You don't know what it's like here, what he's like now. He runs my life, decides my future. I can't talk to him. I can't make him understand. And Clary . . . I can't . . . I can't _do_ this by myself; I can't figure this out by myself, Mom. I need you here, and you're not here." His voice caught and all he could get out was a choked whisper. "Why aren't you here?"

The only response was the wind, and it blew so hard and so cold it stung his cheeks and caused his eyes to water. He closed them and lifted his face to the sky, letting the cold wash over him and cool his heated skin. As much as he tried to stop it, the flood of memories swept over him, pulling him down and under, catching him up in their current and not letting go. That last day with his mother sprang up so vivid, so vicious in his memory Jace could hardly catch his breath. She hadn't seemed right for months prior, always sleeping when she was home, her face pale and drawn. She didn't laugh anymore, didn't smile. That morning, after Jace had gotten ready for school, he'd found her at the kitchen counter, bent over a notebook writing something, her hand moving feverishly over the paper.

To this day Jace wished he would have bothered to look, wished he'd taken five seconds to see what it was she was pouring herself into. But he hadn't, instead, he'd grabbed the five dollar bill his father had left him and called a quick 'Bye!' over his shoulder as he ran out to meet his friends at the bus stop. He hadn't expected her to be writing to him. He hadn't expected her to be saying goodbye.

Thunder rumbled overhead and Jace drew in a sharp breath. The images of her pale face, her hand hanging lifelessly over the side of the bed, the empty pill bottle lying open on the floor below, the folded paper with his name scrawled across the front sitting undisturbed on the pillow next to her head, were all he could see. He remembered how he'd come into her room after school and saw her there, how he'd fallen to his knees beside the bed, how he'd grabbed her shoulders and shook them as he screamed her name, how cold and rigid she felt under his fingers, how he hadn't cried, how he'd never cried.

For so long Jace had kept these images out, had locked these feelings away where he and no one else could access them. But with all the shit and stress piling higher and higher on top of him, he couldn't keep his brain from breaking apart, from feeling everything he didn't want to feel. And standing there in that place, with the one person he could have trusted all of his secrets to, the one person who could have told him which choice would be the best choice, the one person he needed more than anyone in the world but could never, ever have again, the last wall he had surrounding him came crashing down around him. He could feel it everywhere: above him, around him, beside him, crushing him underneath an infinite amount of rubble and broken promises. His chest hurt, his legs trembled, and at the exact moment his knees hit the ground now, the first drops of rain fell from the sky.

.o.O.o.

Clary pushed the leftover fries around her plate with the tines of her fork. Silence stretched infinitely between her mother and her. She knew what her mother wanted to hear, what she'd been waiting for Clary to spill, but to this point, Clary had managed to stay quiet. What was she supposed to say? That she was in love with Jace? She figured her mother had already gotten that. And besides, she didn't owe her mother anything.

Jocelyn sighed and dropped her fork to her plate, the metal clanging loudly against the ceramic. "The whole point of this meal was for us to talk," she said.

Clary shrugged. "So talk."

"Sweetheart," Jocelyn reached across the table and laid her hand on top of Clary's. Clary jerked away from her touch and slid her hand off the table. Her mother sighed again. "Tell me what I need to do to make this better? What I need to do to make you talk to me again."

Clary frowned at her plate and stabbed her fork through one of the fries.

"Sweetheart—"

This time it was Clary's turn to drop her fork. "Don't call me that." Looking up, she glared at her mother. "You don't get to call me that anymore."

"Clary . . ."

"No, you gave up that right when you left."

"You have to know this isn't about you or your brother. Your father and I are just incompatible."

"I'm not talking about this time. I'm talking about all the other times. All the times you've left and stayed gone longer than you needed to. What was that about, Mom?"

Jocelyn looked down at her lap. "You wouldn't understand."

"Try me."

Her mother's mouth opened and closed several times before she just shook her head. "I really don't know how to excuse my actions. It felt like it was the best thing to do at the time."

"The best thing for whom?" Clary dug her nails into her palms, trying her best to control her emotions, but she could feel the anger building, and she was afraid of what she might say.

"You. Your brother. Me . . ." she said, and Clary could hear the shame in her voice.

"You thought it would be best for me and Jonathan not to have a mother?"

"No, I . . ." Jocelyn closed her eyes and breathed in deeply before opening them again. "I just . . . I couldn't be there anymore. I couldn't deal with the fighting, with the accusations of infidelity, the stupid obsession with Michael Wayland. I couldn't deal with him squashing my dreams because they didn't fit with his." Her mother looked up, her gaze pleading. "I felt like I was dying there, Clary."

Clary's eyes stung but she refused to let tears fall. "So you just left."

"I wasn't leaving you, baby." She reached out again, letting her hand fall to the table when she realized Clary's was still in her lap. "I just needed to get things situated before . . ."

"Before what?"

"Before I brought you with me."

Clary's breath caught in her chest. "What?"

Jocelyn's eyes softened. "I want you to come with me, Clary. Come to the city. There are so many opportunities for you there. So many museums, so much art, special schools. It would be everything you dreamed of since you were little."

Clary's mouth dropped open. She couldn't think, could barely speak. "You—you want me to come to the city . . . to live . . . with you?"

Jocelyn nodded.

For a moment, Clary thought about the possibilities, about all the things that would be available to her there that weren't here. She thought of the classes she could take, the things she could see, the things she could do—And then she remembered one very big reason she couldn't. The reason growing inside of her that changed everything. She looked at her mother, at the hopeful expression on her face, and a flare of anger so hot it could have burned concrete shot through Clary.

"Are you kidding me?" she half screeched. "Do you really think you can walk back into my life after months of being gone, offer me some fancy schooling and art museums, and I'd forgive you for walking out on me like I was nothing? I have a life here, friends . . ."

"Clarissa," her mother hissed. "Keep your voice down." She looked around the room, as if anyone else cared. "And that's not at all what I thought. I thought you'd be pleased. It's all you've talked about since you were little, going to art school. It's your dream. I don't want anything or anyone to stand in the way of your dreams like they did mine."

Clary threw the napkin she hadn't realized she'd been shredding down onto the table. "Yeah, well, dreams change, Mother."

"Is this about that boy? Jace?"

Clary's gaze shot up to her mother's. The way she'd said "that boy," the way the words rolled off her tongue, like Jace was just some unimportant bug that needed to be squashed, made Clary's skin crawl. "No. Why would you think that?"

"I heard what you said, Clary. I heard you say you loved him. Don't you think I remember what it was like to be young and 'in love'? How it feels like you'll die without them? Believe me, I remember. But it passes. That phase passes. You can't give up your dreams for another person. And . . . you have to know that this . . . thing . . . you think you have with Jace Wayland, it won't last. It can't. You have no idea the issues that exist between our families. You won't be able to survive that."

Clary's rage boiled. She gripped the edge of the table, her fingers digging into the wood. "What do you know about it or about love? I don't see you fighting very hard for yours. And you don't know anything about Jace and me."

"Maybe not, but I know his father, and yours. I can only imagine the man he will be—"

Clary couldn't take it anymore. She stood from the table, her chair screeching along the tiled floor. "Don't talk about him or the man he is. You don't know _anything_ about him!"

"Clary—"

"No! I don't want to hear anymore. You made your choice, Mom. When you left, you made it. I don't know what changed to make you want me now, but I'm not for sale. You can't just bribe me and make me forgive you. You left. You may have thought you were just leaving Dad or a marriage that made you miserable, but you left _me_. You left Jon. And in doing that, you made my life and who I choose to let in it none of your business!"

"Clary, please, that's not—"

"How does it feel, Mom?" Clary's body vibrated with anger. "To have your dream and nothing else? Was it worth it?"

Jocelyn just stared up at her, her eyes sad, empty.

"That's what I thought," Clary said as she snatched up her bag, slung it over her shoulder, and stalked out of the restaurant, the bells above the door signaling her exit, and the cold, wet air slapping her in the face as she stepped outside.

She heard her mother call after her one last time, but Clary let the door close behind her and drown out her mother's plea. She was still shaking with anger, with incredulity. Rain fell in streams, almost soaking Clary the instant she moved out from under the awning. Digging around in her bag, she found the small travel umbrella Simon had bought for her. It seemed like such a strange gift at the time—who buys someone an umbrella for a gift?—until she'd opened it and saw all her favorite Manga characters positioned on the top. She remembered his face when he'd given it to her, somewhat shy, somewhat embarrassed, but also incredibly smug.

Opening the umbrella, Clary stepped out into the rain, the water pounding against the material over her head and pouring down the sides. She moved quickly but carefully around puddles, wanting nothing more than to get away from her mother. How could she think she could just come back and ask Clary to forget everything and go with her? How could she think Clary would go for that? Didn't she know her daughter at all? It didn't take Clary long to remember that, no, she didn't.

Clary continued across the parking lot and across the street, cars blaring their horns at her as she crossed, like she couldn't see them through the rain. Once on the other side, she had no idea where she was going, other than towards home, so she just started to walk.

There were so many things going on in her head, and the fresh scent and steady fall of the rain seemed to help her separate them all. She didn't even want to think about her mom because that just made her mad. She didn't want to think about the possibility of art school and all of that, because there was a part of her that still wanted that, still wanted to be the girl she had been three months ago. The one with hopes and dreams and everything a teenage girl was. But she wasn't that girl anymore. She didn't know who she was. All she knew was she was growing another human being inside of her, and she was in love with the boy that put it there.

Jace. God, what was going on with him? That morning he'd been different. Worried, yes. Confused, yes. But not angry. At the diner he'd been angry. He said it wasn't her, but she wasn't so sure. And then there was Stephen Herondale. Clary could still see Jace's face as he'd nearly run from the diner, could hear the tremor in his voice on the phone after. There was so much confusion, so much hurt, she could hardly stand to remember it.

Why wouldn't he tell her what was wrong? Didn't he trust her? She thought they were stronger than this, closer than this. After last night, there was no one in her world she felt closer to. Was it not the same for him? She thought it had been. The way he'd held her afterward, the way he'd looked into her eyes, the things he'd said in her ear . . . she couldn't have imagined it. She couldn't have created that connection in her own mind. It was real. It was strong.

A horn blared and Clary jumped in surprise, her foot half-hanging off the curb. A sliver car sped by, its driver glaring out the window at her. Clary's heart raced as she realized that she'd been so lost in thought that she'd almost stepped out into traffic without looking. Swallowing hard, she looked both ways and up ahead, freezing when her eyes caught something familiar.

Large metal gates rose up before her, and hundreds of headstones stretched as far as her eyes could see. But that wasn't what had stopped her. Parked several feet away was Jace's car. She had only been inside of it a couple of times, but she knew it was his by the Northwest Football sticker in the back window. Hurrying across the street, she paused outside the empty vehicle. She frowned when she noticed the keys still hanging from the ignition. Why would he leave them there, out in the open, where anyone could walk by and take his car? Without another thought, she opened the door and snatched the keys, shoving them into her pocket and locking the doors behind her.

She glanced around for any sign of Jace, hoping he was somewhere close, but knowing in her heart exactly where he'd be. With a heavy sigh, she crossed to the opening in the gate and started down the path, her shoes quickly becoming covered with dirt and wet. She didn't know where Jace's mother was buried, but she remembered the time he'd run into her when she'd been painting her wall. He hadn't been at all out of breath, so she figured his mother must not be too far from the old section.

Slowly, she made her way down the path, slipping a few times in places where the gravel had washed away and only slick mud remained. She glanced back and forth, searching each row as she went, looking for the familiar silhouette. It didn't take long to find him.

Clary had been right, Jace's mother was not far from the old cemetery. She'd expected to find Jace there, but she hadn't anticipated what she actually saw when she did. Jace sat on the ground, his back resting against the stone containing his mother's name, his head in his hands, water running from his drenched hair, down his arms and to the ground below. He was soaked through, his jacket clinging to his body, and his shoes and jeans splattered with mud. Clary's chest clenched and her throat tightened, making it hard to swallow.

He looked so small sitting there. So small and lost and alone. Carefully, Clary made her way down the row, watching her feet so she didn't fall. And then she was in front of him. He didn't look up, didn't even move.

"Jace," Clary said quietly, noticing his shoulders tense through his wet clothes. "Jace," she said again.

"You shouldn't be here," his voice came, muffled against the palm of his hand.

"Neither should you." She stepped forward, until the toe of her shoe touched his. "It's pouring."

"I hadn't noticed."

"Jace—"

"Please go away, Clary. Please?"

Clary flinched at the words, but stood firm when she heard the pain in his voice. "Why?"

"Because I don't want you to see me like this. I don't want you to know me like this."

"Like what?"

Jace's shoulders rose and fell. "Weak," he answered.

She looked down at him, at the way he was curled over himself, the way his hands shook against his face, the way his hair appeared dark like melted brass. "Do you think I care about that?" she asked, stretching out her fingers to touch his head. "Do you think that's going to change anything for me?"

"You don't need this. With everything else, you don't need this too."

"Maybe not," she said. "But I need you. And I want everything else that comes with you. Stop trying to protect me, Jace."

A shudder ran through Jace's body, and Clary heard him exhale. Slowly, he dropped his hands and tilted his head up to look at her. Clary's heart nearly stopped when she finally saw his face. Water streamed down his cheeks from the hair hanging over his forehead, his skin was pale and splotchy, and his eyes were rimmed in red.

"I need you too," he said. "So, God-damn much. More than I should."

Clary dropped to her knees, situating herself between his. "God, what's wrong?" she said, her voice catching and her free hand reaching out for his face, his skin freezing against her fingers. "Please tell me what's going on."

"Everything," he whispered, as he leaned into her hand. "Everything is wrong. My father . . . he lied to me. He hid from me . . . and I don't . . . I got into more schools, five more schools, Clary, and he fuc—" Jace let out a breath, swallowing against the word, holding it back.

"You can say it, you know. You can say it in front of me."

Jace shook his head, pausing to collect himself. "He hid them from me. Threw them in the trash so I'd never see. And then he acted like it was no big deal, like I shouldn't care. But I care. I care, damn it."

"I know." Clary brushed the soaked hair away from his forehead. "I'm sorry."

But Jace continued as if she hadn't even spoken, like he needed to get it out before he exploded. "And then there was . . . _him_. God, and he looks like me—or, I look like him." His eyes met hers. "Did you think he looked like me?"

Clary nodded, her eyes stinging with tears at the look on his face. Lost. Broken. Childlike. Wanting to belong somewhere, with someone. But all he needed to do was look at her and he would know he did. He belonged with her.

"And he looked at me, looked me right in the eye, and he . . . didn't know who the hell I was. And I just . . . I didn't know I'd care, but I . . . shit." Jace grimaced and clutched at his chest, like he was trying to hold it together. "I do. I care and I don't want to. I don't want him to have that power over me. He didn't want me, Clary. He didn't want me, so why do I want him to? Why?"

Tears slipped over Clary's cheeks, hot and wet against her skin. "I don't know," she whispered. "Because you're you. Because you're amazing and perfect and beautiful and you deserve to have him want you."

Jace hung his head again. "I miss my mom," he whispered, his voice like shards of ice piercing her chest. "I miss her so much."

And that was what it took for Clary to break. Tossing her umbrella to the side, she moved forward, straddling his legs and wrapping her arms around his trembling, wet body. "I'm sorry," she whispered into his hair. "I'm so sorry."

His arms caged her in, the wetness of him soaking through her and making her shiver, but his breath warmed her neck. "I don't want to go home," he said into her flesh. "I don't want to see my father tonight."

Clary pulled back a little and looked into his face. She saw the desperation there. "Come home with me."

"What?"

She brushed his hair back again and let her fingers linger above his ear. "My father's away at a conference for the week. Come home with me. Let me be there for you. Let me, Jace."

He stared at her for what seemed like forever, letting the rain fall over them, before nodding his head. Clary grabbed her umbrella and stood, holding out her hand to him. After a moment, he let her pull him up. She immediately wrapped her arm around his waist, and together they walked away from his mother's grave, out of the cemetery, and to his car. Clary gave him his keys, and he didn't even ask how or why she had them. They were silent for the entire car ride, the whole block walk home from where they'd parked Jace's car, and all the way through the house until they reached Clary's room.

Jace was shaking with cold and Clary led him to the en-suite bathroom. Without asking him whether he wanted to or not, she crossed to the shower and turned it on hot. When she faced him, he was looking at her with the same expression he'd had at the cemetery, a sort of defeated brokenness.

Clary moved over to him, placing her hands on his arms and pulling him the rest of the way into the room. "You're freezing," she said. "You need to warm up." She gestured to the shower behind her. "You get in, and I'll go get you something dry to wear." She went to leave, when he grasped her by the wrist, his fingers so light as they circled her.

"Don't go," he said.

She turned back and met his eyes.

"Stay."

It only took her a moment to nod and come back to his side. The space quickly filled with steam, but Jace made no move toward the shower; he just stood there, shaking, his teeth chattering together. Finally, Clary unzipped his jacket and pushed it off his shoulders, and then she grasped the hem of his shirt.

"Lift your arms," she said, her voice quiet, soothing.

He did as she asked, and she peeled the soaked fabric from his body, dropping it on the ground at their feet with his jacket and letting her fingers trail over his freezing skin on the way down. Jace shivered, but Clary didn't think it was because of cold this time. She lowered her hands to the waistband of his jeans, holding her breath as she undid the snap, then the zipper, trying hard not to think about the last time he'd been undressed in front of her. This wasn't like that time. This wasn't hormones and lust and need. This was about care and love. This was about letting him know that someone out there cared enough about him to only do, not take.

With some effort, she managed to get his wet jeans down his legs, and then he was standing there in only his boxers, his hands at his sides, his stare fixed on hers.

"Come in with me," he said.

Light flashed outside the window and a loud boom echoed through the sky. Clary swallowed and without hesitation, without moving her eyes from his, pulled her shirt up over her head and removed her jeans. And then she was standing in front of him in only her bra and panties too. Jace didn't look down at her mostly naked form, didn't move his gaze from hers even a fraction of an inch.

Reaching out, she took his hands in hers and pulled him toward the shower. Her heart was beating so fast she was sure she wouldn't be able to count the beats if she tried. She stepped into the small, glass cubicle, and he followed, both still in their underwear. Hot water fell over Clary's head and down her body, and when she pulled Jace into her, it flowed over him too. He still shivered, and still made no move to touch or kiss her.

Clary grabbed the shampoo bottle from the shelf behind her. "Bend down," she said.

Jace did as she asked, and leaned into her. Clary put some of the soap in her palm and scrubbed it into his hair, feeling as the bubbles clung to the strands and stripped away the gritty residue of the rainwater. Once she was finished, she rinsed it and had him stand. When he did, Clary couldn't help watching as the remaining suds slowly made their way down his chest.

She wanted to touch him so badly she could feel it like fire sparking in her fingertips. She let out a trembling breath and heard Jace do the same. Looking up, she caught his eyes and this time, finally, there was something different there. The brokenness wasn't all gone, but there was something more there too.

"Jace?" she said, unsure of what she should do. Touch him, like she wanted, or turn off the water and get out.

Without a word, Jace reached out to her, traced his finger along her face, down her neck, and across the tops of her covered breasts. She closed her eyes and shivered, even though the water pouring over her was hot. He moved forward and she could feel him there in front of her, even though they weren't touching. With her lids still closed, Clary reached for him, her hands finding his stomach and sliding across to his waist. She leaned in, her lips catching his collarbone, leaving behind small, innocent kisses all the way to where his pulse thrummed in his throat. His breath hitched and one of his hands snaked up her back, his fingers tangling with the back of her bra and quickly undoing the clasp. Clary felt the fabric go slack, and Jace's other hand slipped up the side of her neck, threading into her hair.

His lips were at her temple, hot breath flowing across her forehead and down her cheek. "Clary," he said. "Can I have you?"

She nodded into his chest, her hands moving up his arms and over the swell of his biceps. "Yes."

Jace bent down, his mouth working its way toward hers as his hands carefully pulled her bra away from her body. Clary's breath quickened and she opened her eyes, watching as he dropped the garment onto the shower floor. His hand slid up her side, along the dip of her waist and over the swell of her breast, fingers so soft and gentle against her skin. He pulled back for just a few seconds, long enough for their gazes to meet, long enough for her to see exactly the words he wasn't saying, before he lowered his mouth to hers. And it wasn't hard or deep or urgent. It was as soft as his fingers had been, as slow and sensual as a dance.

Clary held onto his shoulders and he dipped down, dragging his lips and tongue down her throat, her chest, her stomach. She dropped her head back as he hooked his fingers into her panties, sliding them down her legs and pulling them away to join her bra on the ground. His mouth was back, this time on her knee, her thigh, her hip, taking its time, covering every inch of her with him.

When he finally stood again, his boxers gone now too, Clary could barely breathe, her body buzzing with anticipation. But he didn't go faster, didn't go harder. Not when their mouths met again, not when he pressed her into the glass, not when he lifted her onto to his hips, and not when he was inside her. It was all slow, all soft, all tender. And she didn't need it to be more. Didn't want it to be more. This was what he needed, what she needed, what they needed. To feel each other this way, to love each other this way.

It didn't take long, ending as quietly as it began, with her breathing his name and him groaning hers. It was simple, easy, perfect.

They dried each other off, hands still grazing skin, small kisses taking the place of words they didn't need. Clary could hear his in every touch, every swipe of his lips, and she hoped he could hear hers.

Once they were dressed—Clary in dry panties and a tank top, and Jace in a pair of Jonathan's old pajama pants that Clary had stolen a few years before—they climbed into her bed, facing each other just as they had afterward the night before. Jace twisted a piece of Clary's hair around his finger and she traced hers over his forearm. It was several minutes before either of them spoke.

"What are you thinking?" Clary asked, knowing it was cliché to ask a guy that after sex, but she really was curious.

Jace's brows drew together and then his eyes met hers. "I'm not going to SEU."

Clary's fingers stopped. "What?"

His gaze moved over her face, as if he were trying to figure out if she was upset at his declaration. "I'm not going to SEU," he repeated.

"Are—are you sure?"

He nodded. "It isn't my dream anymore."

"You don't want to play football anymore?"

"No, I do. But it doesn't have to be there." He leaned in and kissed her gently. "I don't want to go away, Clary. I know you don't want me to do things because of you or the baby, but . . . you're what I want. Both of you. I want to be here for everything. For you, no matter what we decide to do about the baby. And . . . I got an offer from Northern, which is only twenty minutes away. I could . . . I could even live at home. I could be here . . . Is . . ." he looked at her uncertainly, "is that okay?"

Clary felt tears sting her eyes, but none fell. "Yes," she whispered. "If that's what you want, then of course, yes. I told you I'd support whatever decision you made."

"Is it what you want?"

She placed her hands on his face. "How can you even ask that?"

"Because I've told you before, I'm a dumbass and sometimes I need to know for sure."

"Yes." She kissed him on both corners of his mouth, and then once in the middle, lingering a bit longer with that one. "Yes, it's what I want. You're what I want too."

Jace pulled her into him, the smell of her shampoo and the scent that was distinctly him washed over her as she buried her face in his chest. He was so warm.

"Thank you," he whispered into her hair.

"For what?" she asked.

He hugged her close and kissed the top of her head lightly. "For wanting me."

* * *

><p><em>So, those of you anxious for parents to find out . . . one knows now (at least of the relationship). When will the others find out? Only time will tell! ;) As for the pregnancy . . . don't you worry your pretty little heads, that's coming too . . .<em>

_I know some of you may have a problem with Jace's "weakness" because you want him to be some macho, tough guy, but, honestly, being able to be vulnerable with someone does *not* make us weak, it makes us human, and in the long run, makes us strong. And Jace (TMI Jace) has always been an extremely vulnerable character. Re-read TMI and see. As for 9Cs Jace, the boy is under so much stress, he was bound to break at some point. But, at least we have his decision about school!_

_To the anonymous poster who asked if they could write a book report on one of my stories, I honestly don't care, but . . . this isn't a published novel, it's fanfiction. I would suggest you ask your teacher if you even can use it. If you can, have at it, and I'm completely flattered that you'd want to. :)_

_Also, anonymous people, I ADORE getting your reviews and hearing your thoughts just like I do the signed posters, but I'm unable to respond to them. I get a lot of questions in those reviews, a lot of good questions, but I have no way to contact you and answer them. Please don't think I'm ignoring you. I love you all!_

_Until next time, XOXO ~ddpjclaf_


	19. No Real Choice

****The character names of The Mortal Instruments are owned by Cassandra Clare. The original content, ideas and intellectual property of this story are owned by ddpjclaf, 2011. Please do not copy, reproduce, or translate without express written permission.****

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Nineteen - "No Real Choice"<strong>

_A special thanks to ktut for agreeing to preread/beta this chapter while LLWB is out of town. I appreciate it so much!_

_As for the chapter . . . well . . . see the A/N afterward . . . _

_Chapter songs:_

_**Believe – The Bravery _

_**Kiss Me Slowly - Parachute_

_**Be Still – The Fray _

_**Endlessly – Green River Ordinance_

* * *

><p>There were three things Jace was profoundly aware of as he sat in the waiting area of the dean for Northern University:<p>

One: Whomever had sat in this chair before him had either pissed themselves or had been sweating profusely (he prayed to God it was the latter, since he could feel the moisture from the seat through his pants).

Two: The two blondes across the room were desperately trying to get his attention by thrusting out their chests and biting their lower lips, while eyeing him shamelessly—or else they had some sort of impediment that made their backs arch unnaturally and had extremely bucked teeth.

And three: He was never wearing another damn tie in his entire life. In fact, when he got home, he was burning every last one.

Fighting off the urge to rip the stupid thing from his neck, Jace busied himself by thumbing through a magazine from the stack piled on the table next to him. He had no idea what he was pretending to read, nor did he care—though he did hope it wasn't some women's shit that would make him look like a total douche. He just hoped it kept the blonde vultures from circling him. Unfortunately, moments later when the overwhelming scent of vanilla surrounded him, he knew his efforts had not been rewarded. The air in front of him shifted, and he raised his gaze reluctantly.

Before him stood one of the girls from across the room. She wore a sly smile, one side of her bottom lip caught between her teeth. At a distance she'd looked mildly attractive but up close Jace could see the over-abundance of makeup caked on her face, and the generous amount of hair product in her hair. She kind of reminded him of Kaelie—the way she dressed in very tight clothes, trying too hard to be sexy by biting her lip, while curling a stiffened lock of blonde hair around her finger—which for him was not a good thing. His chest was still slightly discolored from the assault Kaelie had wreaked on him weeks earlier.

"Hi," the girl said, her grin growing larger.

Jace sat back in his chair and raised a brow in response. "Hey."

The girl cleared her throat. "I'm Monica and that's Shelby," she tilted her head toward her friend, "and, well, we were just wondering something."

Jace glanced at the other girl sitting across the room. She looked a lot like her friend, though now that he was paying attention, he noticed her hair looked dyed instead of natural. He glanced back at the girl in front of him.

"Are you Jace Wayland?" she asked.

He was a little surprised that they knew who he was. "Yeah. Do I know you?"

"We graduated from Redding last year. You beat us in the final game."

"Ah," Jace said. "Sorry."

Monica snorted. "Yeah, I'm sure you are."

Jace grinned. "Not really."

"Are you coming here next year?"

Jace glanced up at the space above the secretary's station, the seal of Northern University sticking out from the wall. He shrugged. "Maybe. Not sure yet."

She bent down and ran her hand down his right arm, her fingers squeezing slightly around his bicep. "I bet you have a lot of offers. This arm is very talented." He was left handed, but it wasn't like this bimbo paid attention to details like that.

Jace pulled his arm away from her touch and she frowned slightly. "Yeah, well, I'm just checking out my options."

"Mmm," the girl smiled and leaned in, placing her hands on the arm rests to either side of him. "_All_ your options?"

Jace pressed back into his chair, the scent of her perfume nearly overcoming him as her face hovered inches in front of his. How the hell did this forward shit ever actually work for him before? He knew it had, remembered when it had, how he'd had no problem reaching out and pulling a girl like this to him: his hands gripping her hips, sliding over her ass, and slipping up her thigh. He'd never even thought about what he was doing, he'd only ever just felt: felt and wanted and took. But now, as this girl stood over him, dripping in innuendo and the promise of sex, all he could see in his mind were flushed cheeks behind freckles and shy glances under red lashes. And nothing this girl was offering could even compare.

"Because if that's the case," she reached out and slid his tie between her fingers, "my friend and I would be willing to show you what . . . else . . . Northern has to offer." She bit her lip again and raised her eyes to his.

"Oh, yeah?" Jace asked, pretending not to understand her implication and ignoring the impulse to act like a dick over how blind she was to his obvious disinterest. "Like a tour?"

"Mmhmm. Of sorts."

"And this . . . tour service you and—Shelby was it?" Monica nodded. "This service you and Shelby are offering . . . do you just sit around the dean's office and offer it to all unsuspecting enrolling freshman?"

"Not all, and you're not exactly unsuspecting, Jace." She gripped his tie tighter. "And, like I said, we've seen you on the field, and you look like you have enough stamina to handle our . . . tour."

"Oh, I'm sure I do. I'm in perfect shape."

"Yes." Monica grinned again, her eyes flicking down and taking in every inch of his body. "You certainly are," she said under her breath. Her gaze met his again. "So you're interested?"

"Definitely not."

Monica opened her mouth to speak, but when she realized what he'd said, her face fell. "What?"

Jace gave her an innocent smile and pried her hand from his tie. "I'm not interested. I've already gotten a tour of this campus, but thanks for the offer anyway."

The girl stood there, stunned, her mouth opening and closing several times in disbelief before she spun around in a huff and stalked back to her friend. Jace shook his head and looked back down to his magazine again, when he heard a snicker from beside him. Glancing up, he spied a dark-haired guy his age, maybe a year or two older, sitting several seats down and shaking his head. Jace raised a brow when their gazes met.

The guy shrugged. "Sorry, but that was pretty impressive, the way you took care of "the twins" over there."

"'The twins'?" Jace asked.

He nodded. "They're here every time one of the scouts brings in a new athlete. I think they've made it their mission to screw as many of them as possible." He eyed Jace. "Not many resist them."

"Ah, well . . ." Jace shrugged. "I don't need them. I've got a girl."

"Doesn't matter. Even ones with girlfriends usually give in to the idea of a threesome." He stood. "Anyway, I'm being rude." He thrust his hand out. "I'm Alec, wide receiver. Coach Barnes said you'd be coming in today."

"Oh, hi," Jace said, taking Alec's hand in his. "So, did you?"

"Did I what?" Alec asked, his brows furrowed.

"Resist." Jace tipped his head toward the threesome twins.

Alec's face turned a light shade of pink. "Yeah, well, it wasn't exactly hard for me."

"Why not?"

"They don't have the parts I'm interested in."

"Oh," Jace said. "So, if they were two guys you'd be in trouble, then?"

Alec laughed, hard. And then the door beside them opened. A stern looking woman with graying hair and a scowl stepped into the room.

"Alec? Dean Pratt can see you now."

Alec stifled his laughter and stood. Turning back to Jace, he said. "It was cool to meet you, Wayland. Hopefully we'll get a chance to play together next year."

Jace nodded as Alec disappeared through the door. He frowned. Would he be playing there next year? He still had no damn idea what he was doing.

The past three and a half plus weeks, since Clary had found him soaking wet and broken down in the cemetery, had been a new sort of hell for him. Not because of her—never because of her—but because of all the uncertainty that still plagued him. And, of course, because of his father.

When he'd returned from Clary's, his father was there but was still bitter over Jace's refusal of SEU's offer. He kept wanting to know why? What happened? Wouldn't Jace reconsider? But what could Jace say? He wasn't going to reconsider, and it wasn't like he could tell his father why, either. So they'd basically, silently, agreed not to discuss school, or . . . anything of real importance. But Jace could still feel the tension between them every time they were in the same room. Every empty word, every movement was rife with it. Jace didn't want things with his father this way. In spite of everything, he was still the man that raised him, and Jace still felt a sense of . . . loyalty . . . or some other shit that made all of this much more difficult to handle. He still hated to disappoint him, and disappointing his father was all Jace seemed to be able to do lately.

But, regardless, Jace had stuck to his decision and made it a point to come and talk to the dean of each school that had offered him a scholarship to play. He needed to know what else was out there, needed to make this decision based purely on what he wanted and needed, not what his father wanted. That day in the cemetery had been a turning point for him. He'd realized everything he'd done to this point in his life had been in some way to please his father. And he couldn't deny that that feeling was still strong, almost smothering at times, but there was also someone else he wanted to please: himself.

He and Clary had spent a lot of time in the days after the cemetery going over everything, talking about what would be the best route for him to take. She was nothing but supportive, never trying to sway him in one direction or another, refusing to tell him what she wanted him to do. Though he could tell by the look on her face, the way she chewed on the inside of her lip and how her cheeks turned a light shade of pink when she wasn't exactly thrilled with something. But still she held her tongue. It meant more to him than she could ever know that she never tried to push him into something he didn't want. He hadn't had that in so many years he wasn't sure how to take it.

But even with all of that: the support about school, the willingness to talk everything through time and time again, the things that meant the most to him were those moments just after he'd completely broken down. She'd taken him home and cared for him like no one had in longer than he could remember. She hadn't told him to get over it, to grow up, to be a man, like his father would have; she'd simply held him, cried with him, touched him, carefully, as if she could tell his skin felt like it was covered in millions of microscopic cuts.

Everything hurt.

Everything was agony.

Somehow, she knew. She always knew.

And when he'd needed her, needed all of her, she'd let him have her. It was then he realized that what he truly wanted, truly needed above everything else, was right there in front of him.

Jace closed his eyes and tipped his head back against the hard back of the chair, still able to remember everything about that day: how the rain sounded pounding against her window pane, how her wet hair felt between his fingers, how soft her touch was against the skin of his arm, and how well she'd fit when he'd pulled her into him. How well she knew him, even when he felt like he didn't know himself.

"_You know what I think we should do?" she'd said, her voice somewhat muffled by his chest, her skin still warm from the shower._

"_Another shower?" he asked. "Because if so, I need at least ten more minutes to recover."_

"_No," she laughed and slapped his arm, pulling back to look up at him. "We should make a list. You know, the pros and cons of each school. Maybe it'll help? I mean, you should at least consider every one seriously before formally turning any down, don't you think?"_

_Jace scowled. "I think I like the shower idea better." To prove his point, he rolled her gently to her back, grasping both of her hands and pressing them into the mattress next to her face. She stared up at him, her eyes wide and bright, excited. And then his mouth captured hers, softly, mostly lip, just a slip of tongue. But it was enough, enough to make him want her all over again. When he pulled back, Clary's breathing was unsteady, her cheeks flushed, and it took her a moment to open her eyes again. Jace brushed a kiss between her brows, then her nose, then her mouth again. "Or here is fine too," he said._

_Clary wiggled beneath him, but not as if she wanted to get away, more like she wanted to feel more of him. So he pressed into her, letting her feel everything. _

"_I thought you said you needed ten minutes," she said, her voice unsteady._

"_Apparently not. I am pretty above average in everything I do. So it shouldn't be a surprise that this is no exception," he said, leaning in to kiss her again, when Clary's hand came up to cover his mouth._

"_I'm serious, Jace." Moving out from under him, she sat up and reached over to her bedside table. "We should do this now before we get distracted."_

_Jace buried his face into the mattress and groaned unhappily. "I'm already distracted."_

"_Oh, shut up," Clary said. "Big baby. I'll distract you again later, all right? Now come here."_

_He pushed himself up, settling against the headboard and reaching out to pull Clary between his legs, her back against his chest. If he couldn't be on top of her, he was at least going to feel as much of her as possible. She didn't protest and snuggled into him, drawing her knees up to her chest and balancing a pad of paper on top. _

"_Now, let's start with the pros and cons, then we can write down any questions you want to ask about each place." _

_She flipped open the notebook, which Jace noticed was actually a sketchpad. Picture after picture after picture was etched into the paper. But when she tried to flip past one, something about it caught his eye and Jace stopped her, his hand covering the page to keep her from going past. He slid his fingers down the sheet, pulling the book away from her and holding it up closer. It was a collage of drawings, so to speak. There were different scenes done in very little detail, almost as if each was hidden behind a curtain and only the vaguest hint of what was behind was visible. There was a drawing of a door, a very rough sketch of a couple embracing, a pair of hands, a male figure with no facial features, and a pair of knee-high boots. _

_Jace recognized those boots._

_He glanced over at Clary, and she was staring at the drawing too, her face flaming red. "I drew that the day after the party. I was trying to remember . . . something. Anything. But this was all I had . . ." She ran her fingers over the page, stopping over the drawing of the hands. "I remembered your hands the most. Not what they looked like, but what they felt like."_

_Jace wrapped one arm around her shoulder and neck, and grasped her leg under the knee with the other, hugging her against him. _

"_I thought maybe if I drew it," she continued, "maybe it would come back to me. That I'd remember you, your face, just . . . something else. But I didn't. It was just this . . . this . . . jumbled mess. Like a dream or a memory from when I was too young to know I should remember."_

"_Jumbled mess . . ." Jace mused, his focus still on the drawing._

_Clary turned her face toward him. "Was it different for you? Clearer?"_

_Jace shook his head. "I remembered your hair." He pushed a lock of it aside with his nose and touched his lips to her neck, just under her jaw. "Just this abundance of red curls, and I remembered how it felt between my fingers, on my face, tickling my shoulders."_

_Clary shivered._

"_And I could remember how you felt wrapped around me, how much I wanted you, and God, I needed to know who you were. But I didn't know where or how to look. I had nothing else either. Just red hair and those damn boots." He pressed a kiss to her earlobe and whispered, "I loved those boots."_

_Clary laced her fingers through his and pulled the hand he had draped around her neck to her mouth, kissing his knuckles, one at a time. "I loved your hands," she whispered. "I still love them."_

_Jace's other hand moved up her leg, his fingers circling the edge of her shorts, moving to her inner thigh, while his mouth trailed along her jaw._

"_Jace . . ." she said, her voice low with warning. "We really should—"_

"_Don't make me stop," he breathed, watching goosebumps form where his breath hit her skin. "I don't want to stop."_

_She sighed, turned around in his arms, and wrapped hers around his neck. "Okay," she said, "but afterward, we're making that list. No excuses or any more distractions. Got it?"_

_Jace grinned, shoved the sketchpad to the floor, and pushed Clary back onto the bed. Her legs circled his waist and her hands laced behind his neck._

"_You're insatiable," she accused._

_He nodded, kissing down her throat, along her collarbone, the tops of her breasts. There was no denying it, he was. "Mmhmm. You can't resist me and you know it."_

_She let out a huff, like she was annoyed, but he could tell how much she loved it by how hard she was clutching him, and how she craned her neck to give him easier access. He would take it. He would take all of it._

"_Keep complaining, baby. I'll just take my sweet time." _

_Her fake protests continued as he kissed, down, down, down, smothering her, teasing her with his lips and fingers, making her forget about stupid schools and lists and anything else. And then those protests weren't protests any longer. They were his name and pleas and fingers in his hair, pulling him in, guiding his mouth and hands and body where she wanted them to go._

A buzz against Jace's thigh brought him out of the memory. He lifted his head, seeing that the two blonde bimbos had left the room, then fished into his pocket for his phone. Pulling it out, he grinned at the message displayed on his screen.

_I swear to God I'm going to go all hormonal psycho on Maia's ass. She is such a super bitch._

Jace shook his head, still smiling, and typed out a message.

_**Baby, what have I told you about dirty talk through text? You know what it does to me.**_

A minute later his phone buzzed again.

_I'm serious!_

_**I am too. If you were here right now, you'd see my very inappropriate predicament in the middle of the dean's waiting room. **_

He fidgeted in his seat, his pants uncomfortably tight from being lost in his memories for a minute.

_I need you to be my supportive boyfriend right now, not the assy one. Okay? Besides, how is calling Maia a bitch dirty talk?_

_**I'm a man, and you're talking about going ape-shit on some girl. In my mind, that equates to: hair pulling, scratching, hair pulling (again), some substance that makes everything slippery and clothing cling to your bodies, hair pulling (a third time) and the likelihood of someone's shirt getting ripped. And how is me telling you your text turns me on being an ass?**_

_Oh. My. God. You are such a pervert. Everything turns you on._

_**Just you. And girl fights.**_

_*sigh*_

_**Did you just text sigh at me?**_

_Jace . . . please?_

Jace sighed for real.

_**Fine, I'll be serious. What did she do?**_

It took her several moments to answer.

_I quit the squad today._

Jace frowned. Clary had been talking about needing to step away from the cheer squad for a few weeks now, so this wasn't a surprise. But he knew how hard it was for her, how much she didn't want to give that part of her life up.

_**Okay, but that was the plan, right?**_

_Yeah. I just . . . didn't expect her to be so rude about it. She told me I'd ruined the squad, that I'd ruined their chances to go to nationals by not being a team player and refusing to do mounts, and by now leaving them a person short. I just . . . don't know how I feel._

Jace felt a twinge of anger himself.

_**You're right. She is a super bitch.**_

There was no reply.

_**Clary, you know she's just talking shit, right? It's not your fault.**_

_Isn't it? I can't see how it's not. I can't cheer anymore because I'm knocked up. Who's fault is that—and don't say yours or I'm going to rearrange your pretty face next time I see you._

She was always trying to spare him this guilt and he didn't understand why. He _was_ at fault, at least partially. He always would be.

_**Unless it was some other guy that knocked you up, then I'm pretty sure I—**_

The door beside him opened again, and the same woman who'd called Alec back stepped out into the room. "Jace Wayland?"

"Yeah—uh, yes?"

The woman looked down at him, her eyes tired and unsmiling. "The dean will see you now."

He nodded and stood from his chair, finishing his text to Clary after the woman turned her back and led him down the hall.

—_**shit. I have to go, they just called me back. We'll talk when I get out?**_

_Yeah. Okay._

She still sounded so defeated—if one could sound defeated over text.

_**She's just being a bitch, Clary. Don't let her get to you.**_

_Yeah, I know. I won't. I'll talk to you later._

He bit back a sigh, reading the lie in her words, but unable to do anything about it right then.

_**Bye, baby.**_

_Bye._

Jace swallowed against the guilt crawling up his throat. He knew Clary hated it when he felt this way, but he couldn't help it. He didn't like her having to give up things because of this, because of him. She could spout about it not being his fault all she wanted, but he knew better. Nothing she could say would ever make him feel any differently. He'd accepted it now, so the guilt wasn't all consuming, but that didn't mean it didn't still bother him. The fact of the matter was: she was pregnant because of him, because he was drunk and couldn't keep his hands off her, because he hadn't used a condom. And it made him feel like shit.

But he couldn't dwell on that now. He needed to focus, because if everything went the way he hoped it would, he would be one step closer to making things better for him and Clary.

Jace shoved his phone back into his pocket just as the woman escorting him stopped in front of a large oak door at the end of the hall. Reaching forward, she twisted the knob, and pushed the door open. She didn't look at him or offer any sort of comforting words, making him feel like she was annoyed by his mere presence and couldn't wait to get rid of him. What a shitty secretary or whatever the hell she was. With a wide sweep of her arm, she gestured for Jace to enter.

His nerves sparked and panged. It never failed. Every time he walked into one of these offices, he felt like he was holding onto all of this by a very weak piece of thread, like one wrong word or move would cause it to snap. He knew he shouldn't worry. Of everything going on in his life this was the most sure. But he couldn't help it, this was important. Being closer to Clary was important. He couldn't afford to screw this up.

Taking in a breath and trying to squash the residual irritation at this woman and his worry about Clary, Jace pushed all other thoughts from his mind except giving the dean what he expected: confidence, surety, control, and stepped inside, trying not to wince as the heavy door closed behind him.

.o.O.o.

Clary stared at his words for several seconds before switching off her phone. She drew in a breath and tucked it into her pocket, leaning back into her chair. The hard plastic creaked under her weight and a few of her classmates glanced back at her, their eyes lingering longer than normal. Clary immediately felt a sense of panic. Why were they looking at her? What did they know? Could they tell already? She glanced down at her growing stomach, covered by a bulky sweatshirt, and rolled her eyes at herself. She really had to stop imagining things. No one was looking at her. No one could tell yet at all.

She attributed her increased paranoia to the massive suckiness this day had entailed so far: from Maia, to the freaking stomachache she'd had for several days. All Clary wanted to do was go home. Unfortunately, she had fifteen minutes left of school before she could leave.

Her history teacher droned on and on at the front of the room, and Isabelle twirled her hair around her finger and yawned. With a roll of her eyes, she leaned over the row and whispered, "Thank God for winter break. I'm so sick of school it's not even funny."

"Yeah," Clary said, her face heating when her stomach chose that moment to gurgle loudly. God, what was with her drawing attention to herself today?

Isabelle reached into the bag hanging on the back of her chair and pulled out a granola bar, wrongly assuming the sound meant Clary was hungry, and held it out to her.

Clary shook her head and placed her hand over her churning stomach. She'd had trouble eating much of anything lately without getting a massive case of heartburn, which more often than not led to vomiting. Even water made her feel sick.

Isabelle raised her brow. "Still feeling like crap?"

"It's only really bad when I eat," Clary said. "Right now it's only a dull roar."

"You've got to eat, Clary."

"Tell that to this kid, Iz." She paused. "I'm trying, it's just not staying down."

Isabelle sighed. "Well, it won't be for forever."

"It _feels_ like forever."

"It's only nine months, Clary," Isabelle said. "Besides, you're already, what? Four months?"

Clary nodded. "Sixteen weeks." She paused. "Out of forty. Ugh. That sounds like forever still."

"Well, when you put it that way, yeah. The months sound better. Nine is way better than forty."

"It's the same difference, Iz." Clary stuck her finger between the band in her pants and her stomach, trying to relieve some of the pressure. It was no use. Her pants were too tight. Again.

She sighed and shifted in her seat to find a more comfortable position, but it didn't matter which way she turned, the band still dug into her flesh. Tears stung her eyes, and she blinked rapidly to keep them away, hoping her friend didn't notice. She was not that lucky.

"Hey," Isabelle leaned in. "You okay?"

Clary nodded and wiped at her eyes.

Isabelle gave her a look that said: _Don't lie to me, bitch_. But at the same time, their teacher cleared her throat and said, "Girls? Is there something you'd like to share with the class?"

Clary felt her face heat immediately, but Isabelle stayed cool. "No, Mrs. Schroder. Clary and I were just discussing how crazy it was for the girls back then to be ready for marriage so early. I mean, thirteen is so young!"

Mrs. Schroder seemed mollified by Isabelle's answer, and Clary was dumbstruck by how her friend could have been paying attention to the lesson while talking. Clary couldn't do the same, she was too preoccupied with how Isabelle's statement brought her thoughts back to a conversation she and Jace had had the week before. Her chest still tightened when she remembered it.

"_Are you cold?" he'd asked, as they'd walked up the path toward the old section of the cemetery._

_Clary tucked the end of her scarf into the neck of her coat and shivered. The soft flakes of the year's first snow fluttered down around them, coating the ground in a thin layer of white. "No, this shivering means I'm hot." Her teeth chattered and her breath came out in hazy puffs._

_Jace chuckled and muttered a quiet, "Smartass," as he unzipped his own coat and threw it over Clary's shoulders._

"_You don't have to give me this," she said, even as she clutched the material closer to her, his warmth and the scent of him surrounding her. "You'll freeze."_

_He rolled his eyes and grinned. "I think I'll live. I've practiced in less than this and in colder weather than this." _

_Clary eyed his black zippered hoodie which covered the long-sleeved shirt she knew he wore underneath, the dark-washed jeans, and the knit cap covering his head. It didn't look like enough to her, but she had to admit, he didn't seem cold. If it weren't for the fact that his warm breath was visible on the frigid air and there was a rosy tint to his cheeks and nose, she would have sworn he was not standing in the same weather as her. His arm wrapped around her shoulders and pulled her in, his lips brushing her temple, before he dropped his arm and his hand trailed down, his fingers tangling with hers._

_Clary tucked her face into the soft material of her scarf, her cheeks heating and her lips curling into a smile. It amazed her how, in spite of all they'd done and said, with just the simplest action or touch, he could still make her blush. "Well, thanks, then. But just tell me if you get cold."_

"_I'm not going to get cold."_

_Clary stopped and pulled on his arm. "I don't want you getting sick just to prove you're man enough to stand out here without a jacket."_

_Jace looked down at her, and after a moment, his mouth twitched into a smirk. "Tell you what," he said, moving toward her. She inched back until she hit the short wall surrounding the old part of the cemetery. "I'll let you know when I'm cold, but I don't want my coat back."_

"_Then how are you supposed to get warm?"_

"_You'll think of something."_

_Clary puckered her lips to hide her smile. "Maybe I already have."_

_Jace's mouth stretched into a full grin, the one Clary thought made him even more beautiful. "I'm suddenly freezing," he said. She laughed as he stepped into her, wrapped his hands around her waist, and lifted her up. He grunted softly as he settled her on top of the wall. Placing his hands to either side of her hips, he leaned in, his eyes glittering with mischief, "Now, warm me up."_

_She reached for him, still fighting her smile, and twisted her hands into his hoodie, pulling him further into her. As he drew closer, the playfulness in his eyes changed to something else, something more. And when he was close enough to kiss, his lids slipped shut, his breathing coming faster in anticipation. But instead of taking his mouth as he expected, Clary leaned in and kissed the end of his cold nose, lingering long enough for her warmth to take away the chill._

"_There," she said, pulling away. "Better?"_

_His eyes opened slowly. "Cheater," he whispered. _

_And before she could really laugh, he slipped his hand up under all her layers and pressed it against her lower back. Clary yelped and tried to twist away from his cold fingers._

"_Jace!" she screeched._

_His hold on her tightened as she struggled against him, his freezing skin soaking up all her heat. "That'll teach you to tease me," he said, his eyes full of laughter. "Now, kiss me right."_

"_I should kick you," she said._

"_But you won't." He lowered his head, his nose nudging hers. "Kiss me."_

_Before giving him what he wanted, she lowered her hands to the wall beside her, rubbing her palms in the freshly fallen precipitation accumulating there. Raising them, the melting snow dripping down her wrists, she cupped his jaw and the upper part of his neck. He sucked in a breath and his eyes widened at the sensation. Clary leaned in, a smile on her lips. _

_Jace's other hand came up, chilly fingers tracing along her cheekbone and up into her hair as he pulled her face against his: lips brushing, mouths parting, breaths sharing. It was delicate, slow, perfect. The taste of him flooded her mouth and the smell of him filled her nose. And even though it was cold outside, it was scorching inside their bubble._

_The hand against her back moved around, resting for a moment at the dip of her waist, then continued forward until the back edge of it lay against the swell of her stomach. His thumb brushed back and forth over the side of the bump, something he'd been doing more and more lately._

_Clary broke the kiss and pressed her forehead to his mouth, his lips puckering against her lightly as she stared down at where he touched her. She couldn't see him, but she felt him. Closing her eyes for a moment, she swallowed and opened them again._

"_It's getting bigger," she whispered._

"_Mmhmm," he said, kissing her forehead again and spreading his whole hand over the bump. _

_Clary let out a shaky breath. "I can't hide it much longer. I'm going to have to tell them soon."_

_Jace's fingers faltered, but he never completely stopped moving them over her. "When?" The question came easily, but Clary could hear the nervousness in his voice._

_Looking up, she met his gaze. "Not until after Christmas. I don't . . . I don't want the holidays to be any weirder than they're already going to be . . ." She trailed off, thinking, planning. "But sometime during break. I—I have to. I know I have to."_

_Jace removed his hand from her stomach and cupped the other side of her face, holding her between his palms. "Maybe it won't be so bad."_

_Clary gave him the "are you freaking crazy?" look. _

"_What?" He shrugged. "I know they're going to be mad, yell, threaten to kill me, or worse—cut off my dick. But really, what can they do?"_

"_Tell me I can't see you. Make me move with my mother. I don't know."_

_Now he kissed her nose. "Or maybe they'll insist I marry you and make you an honest woman." He chuckled._

"_Oh, God!" Clary shoved him away. "Don't even say that!" She shuddered and closed her eyes, hugging herself tightly._

_Jace didn't say anything, didn't laugh again, didn't move. When Clary opened her eyes, she was confused by what she saw. Jace's brows were pulled together and he was staring down at his feet._

"_What?" she asked._

"_Nothing." He shook his head, his gaze still glued to the ground._

"_No, what?"_

_He lifted his head, but didn't look at her. "Is the idea of . . . that . . . so repulsive to you?"_

_She didn't know what to say. Thinking about marrying him . . . someday . . . didn't make her feel scared, but thinking about doing it now, because she was pregnant, because someone made her . . . no, that was not how she wanted it._

"_Jace . . ." she reached for him, but he pulled back, shaking his head._

"_I'm gonna go see my mom," he mumbled, and turned away from her._

_Clary watched him go, his hands now tucked into his jeans pockets and his shoulders hunched. For a moment, she sat there, frozen, unsure what to do or say. Slowly, she lowered herself from the wall and made her way out of the old cemetery, following Jace's footprints until she found him. He stood before his mother's grave, hands still in his pockets, his eyes cast down, and snowflakes gathering on his cap and the ends of his hair._

_Moving to stand in front of him, Clary grabbed his hands and pulled them into hers. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make it sound like that."_

"_Make it sound like what? That marrying me would be the worst thing to ever happen to you? Worse than being pregnant at sixteen even?"_

"_Yes."_

"_Well, you failed," he said, still not looking at her. "That's exactly how it sounded."_

"_Jace . . ." she started, searching for the right words and not finding them. "I'm sixteen. I'm too young to have a baby. But I don't have a choice about that anymore. It's going to happen no matter what I want, but I don't have to be the cliché sixteen-year-old who marries the boy who knocked her up just because her daddy tells her to. I'm not going to settle for that."_

_Jace let out a very unamused laugh. "Oh, that's great. So marrying me would be settling?"_

"_No, God, that's not what I meant either."_

"_Then what the hell do you mean, Clary?" He finally looked at her, but she didn't like the hurt and anger in his expression. _

"_I just . . ." Tears stung her eyes, but she held them back. "I just don't want to get married because I'm pregnant. I don't want to get married in high school."_

"_Well, I didn't ask you, but it's good to know where you stand."_

"_Jace, please." She leaned into him, resting her forehead against his chest and gripping the edges of his hoodie in her fists. "Please hear what I mean and not what I'm saying. I can't say it right."_

_It took several long moments before Clary heard him sigh and wrap his arms around her. "Do you really think that's the reason I'd marry you?"_

_Clary shook her head. "I don't know. I mean, why else would you consider marriage at eighteen?"_

"_I'm not. I mean . . ." he said. "I never planned on getting married at eighteen. But I never planned on being a father either, and here I am." He paused. "I would never marry you just because you're pregnant or because someone told me I had to." He bent into her, and Clary could feel the warmth of his breath stirring her hair. "I would marry you because I can't stand the thought of not having you, of not kissing you every day for the rest of my life. I would marry you because I love you and I need you and I can't live without you. I would marry you because you make me feel like I can do anything, be anything, have everything. Those are the reasons I'd marry you, Clary." His voice lowered to a whisper. "I'd marry you tomorrow if you'd have me. I'll marry you ten years from now if that's what you prefer. I don't care when; all I care is that when it happens, you know why. And those are the reasons why."_

_Clary couldn't hold the tears back any longer, and they fell over her cheeks: first hot, then cold as they slipped over her chin. "You said when," she said into his sweatshirt._

"_What?"_

"_You said when, not if."_

_Jace didn't say anything for several seconds, and then Clary felt his hands on her face lifting her up to him. When their eyes met, it was as if he was memorizing her, writing every plane of her into his mind. "Because that's what I meant."_

_Clary swallowed._

"_I won't ask when you're in high school, okay?" He tucked a piece of her hair behind her ear. "I know that's not what you want. But . . . someday . . . when I do, it will be for all those reasons and more."_

"_You can't say that. What if you change your mind? What if things don't work out? What if—"_

_Jace's finger closed over her mouth, cutting off the rest of her protests. "There is no if. With us there are no ifs. Only whens."_

Clary's memory was shattered by the shrill blare of the bell signaling the end of class.

Isabelle jumped from her seat and slung her bag over her shoulder. Holding out her hand to Clary, she said, "No school for two weeks! Let's go celebrate."

Of course, that was easy for Isabelle to say. She wasn't the one with a time bomb growing in her uterus, and a boyfriend promising her _when_. When, when, when. The word swirled around in her mind, and Clary had to shake her head to dislodge it. It wasn't that she didn't want it—someday—she just couldn't seem to keep herself from thinking: if she hadn't gotten pregnant, he wouldn't even know her, wouldn't even want her. So, in essence, wouldn't his "when" be because she was pregnant anyway? She shook her head again. God, she had to stop thinking like this. Gathering her books and stuffing them into her bag, Clary stood, feeling an immediate sense of vertigo.

"Whoa," she said, swaying slightly and clutching the back of her chair.

Isabelle grabbed her arm, her eyes growing wide. "What's wrong?"

Clary blinked at the fuzzy vision, swallowing hard against the nausea rising in her throat. "I—I just stood up too fast, I guess."

Isabelle eyed her skeptically. "You sure?"

Clary nodded. "I think so." Her stomach still churned painfully and her head felt as though it had been pumped full of air. "I need to go to the bathroom before we go."

"Okay," Isabelle said, and led her friend out of the classroom and into the packed hallway.

Clary felt strange, almost as if she were walking in a dream. She was no longer dizzy, but nothing felt real, and the air around her seemed thick and wet. Her stomach burned and she could feel her pulse in her head. Numbness prickled up and down her arms, settling in her fingertips. She'd been feeling off for the last several days, but nothing like this.

Isabelle steered her into the bathroom, and left her by the sink while she walked over to get some paper towels. When she noticed there were none, she moved to one of the stalls to grab some toilet paper. She was talking to Clary the whole time, but all Clary could do was stare into the mirror at her reflection. It was fuzzy around the edges, and Isabelle's voice sounded as if she were speaking to Clary from above water. Blackness tinged the edge of her vision and Clary gripped the sink hard.

"Iz . . ."

"Yeah? Damn it, doesn't anyone fill the paper in here?" Her voice sounded like it was coming from miles away.

"Iz . . ." Clary said again, and the blackness moved further inward, her head so full of pressure and her hands tingling painfully. "I don't . . . I don't feel good," she said, dipping her head and closing her eyes, trying to ward away the wrongness. Her heart thudded against her chest. Too fast. Way too fast.

"Clary?" Her name was an echo, bouncing around in her skull.

She tried to open her eyes but the blackness was there, everywhere, and she felt her grip slip.

"Clary!" Isabelle's voice was so far away. So far . . .

Clary fell forever, into infinity, and the only thing that let her know she was still alive, was the crack of pain that spread throughout her temple and the rush of warmth that engulfed the side of her face as it rested against the cool tile floor.

She tried to move, tried to speak, tried to pry her lids open, but she couldn't do anything except lie there. Isabelle was over top of her, hands against her back, fingers wrapping around her arm. But Clary was so tired, so, so tired.

Somewhere in the back of her mind she knew she needed to open her eyes, needed to respond somehow, but she just couldn't. Isabelle's frantic voice continued above her, the words she was saying making no sense at all, just frenzied murmurs in the dark. And then there were more voices, and more hands, and more chaos. But it was starting to grow less and less, dimmer and dimmer, until there was nothing but darkness and silence and peace.

…

The next thing Clary knew was cold: bitter, unending cold. She shivered and shook, but nothing seemed to make her warm. There was a strange sound coming from far away, an incessant beep, measured and slow. She couldn't make out what it was, couldn't seem to connect the noise with anything she knew.

Everything was dark and silent besides the beep. She tried to move, but her limbs felt like lead weights against her strength. She was so tired and so weak.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The sound grew closer, louder, and Clary tried to open her eyes, but they, too, were too heavy to move. The blackness around her was so thick, so all encompassing that she couldn't see even a few inches in front of her face. She wondered if she were dreaming, if this weighed down though floating feeling was all in her head, but she couldn't be sure. The beeping grew louder and more pronounced, and she could almost grasp the memory of what it was. Almost . . .

"What's wrong with her?"

Clary heard her mother's voice from far away, wherever the beep was coming from. There was pressure in her ears and a dull ache in her head.

"She's suffered a mild concussion, caused from when she hit her head on the sink on the way down."

The pain in her temple increased at the reminder, and Clary wanted to press her palm against it.

"No, I know that . . ." her mother said.

"Why isn't she awake yet?" her father's voice finished.

_My father's here?_ Clary thought, confused, and again wondering where she was and what that God-awful beeping was. Something cold pressed against her chest and she wanted to shiver, but her body didn't respond. She wanted to open her eyes. Why couldn't she open her eyes?

"Your daughter came in severely dehydrated, which would account for her collapse. Her blood pressure was low and her heart rate increased. We gave her a few stitches to close the minor gash on her head and are giving her intravenous fluids to rehydrate her. We'd like to keep her overnight just to monitor her, but all in all we think both of them will be just fine."

Wait. Both. Wait . . .

"W—what do you mean 'both of them'? I don't . . ." Clary's mother's voice came out uncertain, confused. "I don't understand what you mean."

There was a rustling of papers and the beeping sound increased, the space of time between them coming faster and faster.

"Your daughter . . . and her baby."

The beeping was speeding now. Oh, God, she needed to open her eyes; she needed to stop him.

There was a gasp and something clattering to the ground. "I don't know what the hell you're talking about," Clary's father said, "but my daughter is not pregnant. She's only sixteen-years-old. You've made a mistake."

"I'm sorry, sir," the other man's voice came from lower, and the sound of papers crinkling floated to Clary's ears. "There's no mistake. Your daughter is pregnant. Pretty far along too. Almost four months."

There was a sharp cry—her mother—and then a bunch of cursing from her father. Clary struggled to move, to speak, to open her eyes, and then finally, _finally_, she could see a slip of light. It was small but it was there. Her head pounded and her mouth was so dry and scratchy it was as if it were filled with sandpaper. A hazy picture of her parents emerged, but it didn't seem right. Her mother was curled into her father's chest, her hands gripping his shirt and his face fixed in anger directed at the man in from of him.

"Mmmm," Clary said, swallowing against the dryness, her throat aching at the movement. "Mom." The word came out a croak, but it was enough.

Her mother's head snapped up and her eyes were on Clary. Faster than Clary could comprehend, her mother was at her side, her hand reaching for Clary's and her tear-streaked face hovering over top.

"Oh, God, baby, we're here. Dad and I are here. Oh, God . . ."

"Mom," Clary said again, her eyes stinging and her throat hurting. "Dad." Her gaze flickered to her father's, as he stood behind her mother, his face drawn and pale. She couldn't decipher the emotion she saw there, but she knew now that they knew. "I'm sorry. I should have told you, but I was scared and I—"

"How could this happen?" her mother asked. "You're pregnant? How could you—"

"I was at a party," Clary said through tears she didn't give permission to fall. "I was drinking. I don't remember . . . I don't know . . ."

"Did—did someone force themselves on you, Clary?" her mother asked, and somehow, her voice sounded more hopeful, like the fact of her daughter being forced into it would be better than choosing.

Clary tried to speak, but the pounding in her head made her want to throw up, so she whimpered instead.

"Shhh," her mother said. "It's okay, sweetheart. You don't have to talk now. We'll figure it out and we'll find this boy and—"

"No. No . . ."

"Clarissa, how can you not want to punish the person who did this to you?" her father asked, irritation and anger plain in his voice. "I will not let this boy get away with doing this to my daughter!"

"No." Clary shook her head, ignoring how it made her more nauseous. "He didn't . . . he wouldn't . . ." She turned her fuzzy gaze to her mother, her mouth not working with her mind. "Mom . . . You know. You heard . . . He wouldn't . . ." Her voice dissolved into unwanted sobs, her chest shuddering with the inability to draw in enough air, her vision clouded with tears. Her mother straightened, her eyes widening.

"It was him? _He_ did this to you?"

"Mom," Clary managed. "He didn't . . . d—do . . . a—anything . . . w—wrong . . ." She wanted to stop, but she couldn't seem to hold it in. Every emotion, every fear, everything she'd felt and hidden and pushed away for four long months came pouring out. "Mom, p—please d—don't."

"Who?" her father asked, his voice calm, scary. "Who are you talking about? What do you know about this, Jocelyn?"

Clary's mother's eyes met Clary's, and she begged her through her stare not to tell, not to say anything at all. But she should have known her mother wouldn't or couldn't listen.

"She's been seeing the Wayland boy."

Clary closed her eyes and turned onto her side, crying harder into the pillow, wishing she could just fall back to sleep, that she could just cease to exist for a little longer.

"Wayland!" her father boomed. "Jace Wayland?" As if there was another.

"Daddy," Clary squeaked out, and her father's gaze fell to hers. "Please don't. It's . . . it's not like that."

"Not like what, Clarissa?" he said, his eyes turning into black slits. "You didn't sleep with him? You didn't get yourself knocked up? By a damn Wayland?"

"Valentine, please—"

"No!" Clary's father jerked his arm out of Clary's mother's grasp. "Don't 'please' me, Jocelyn. You knew about this . . . this . . . whatever it is between them?"

"I only found out she was seeing him a few weeks ago, and I had no idea it was this serious. I had no idea . . ."

"You know this is all your fault!" he said.

"My fault?" her mother said. "How is this my fault?"

"You weren't there! You walked out! You left your daughter there without a mother, without someone to talk to her about these things!"

"She's not just my daughter, Valentine. She's yours too—"

Clary covered her ears and rocked back and forth on the bed. She was dreaming. This was not happening. This was not—

". . . going to kill that little son of a bitch!"

Clary's eyes popped open.

"Now, just calm down, Valentine. I'm upset too, but we need to be rational about this."

"Rational?" he nearly screamed. "Rational? How's this for rational: the doctor just said she was four months along, Jocelyn. Do you know what that means?"

"Yes, I've had two children myself, I'm quite aware."

"And are you aware that your daughter turned sixteen _three_ months ago."

Her mother grew silent; her brows furrowed in confusion and then rose in realization.

Her father drew his point home. "That little bastard knocked up a fifteen-year-old girl!"

.o.O.o.

Jace stood from the chair and reached over the desk, taking the dean's hand in his.

"It's been a pleasure, Mr. Wayland, and we really hope you'll choose us to further your education."

"Thank you, sir. I'll definitely let you know when I make my final decision."

The dean smiled and walked around the desk, leading Jace back to the door and out into the hall. As Jace stepped out into the waiting area, relief washed over him. He was done. He'd visited all the schools, gotten all his questions answered, and he couldn't wait to tell Clary all about it.

An excited shiver rushed through him as he exited the building and onto the center campus. Because it was winter, there weren't many students milling around the quad, but there were some, bundled in dark coats with book bags slung over their shoulders. Benches sat in intervals around a grassy clearing with several large oak trees scattered throughout. Jace smiled to himself. He could do this. He could come here. He could still play football. And he could still be there for Clary.

Northern wasn't near as large as SEU, or as big into football, but he could be happy here. He would be happy here. On the way across the quad to the visitor's parking lot, he pulled out his phone and dialed Clary's number. He glanced both ways before crossing the street and listened as the phone rang once, twice, three, four times. And then her voicemail picked up. He frowned and pressed the end button, glancing at the time: 4:15. She should have been out of school by then.

Pressing her speed dial once again, Jace waited through four more rings and hung up again when her voicemail answered. He pulled a hand through his hair. Where was she? Maybe she just forgot to turn her ringer back on. She sometimes did that. Figuring that was probably it, he typed in a text instead.

_**I'm on my way back. Meet me at the old cemetery in 45? I have so much shit to tell you. **_

All the way home, Jace couldn't seem to shake the niggling feeling at the back of his mind, telling him something was wrong. Why hadn't Clary texted him back? It wasn't like her to take this long. But he figured there must be a reason. Maybe she hadn't gotten his text yet? Maybe her phone had died? That was probably it. She was forever forgetting to charge it the night before. She'd probably get his message soon, so he figured he'd just go to the cemetery and wait for her there. If she didn't show after a little while, he'd find another way to contact her. He wouldn't mind visiting his mom again anyway. He'd been going a lot more lately, and the visits always seemed to help him clear his mind. But he couldn't ignore the knot of anxiousness lodged in his stomach.

Traffic through town was a bit busy due to it being rush hour, but he made it through after only a short delay and was pulling up outside the iron gates soon enough. Without pausing to grab his coat, he jumped out of the car and rushed through the cemetery to the very back. He paused when he found himself alone. There weren't even any footprints in the snow, so he knew she hadn't been there already and gone. He looked down at the time on his phone again. It had been fifty-five minutes, and there was still no text from Clary.

Jace walked around to the opening of the old section and sat on the low, half-wall. He stared down at her name, his brow furrowed. Where was she? Why hadn't she at least gotten back to him? The feeling that had just been a niggle on the way home was a full-on pull now. He flipped to his contact list and clicked on Isabelle's name. Holding the phone to his ear, he waited through four rings to her and got her voice mail too.

"Damn it," he said to himself and went to dial Clary's number again, when he heard the snow crunch behind him. He jumped to his feel, whirling around. "Thank God, I was starting to freak—"

But it wasn't Clary he found standing before him.

"Dad?"

His father stood only a few feet away, his body still covered in his work suit and black trench coat. In his hands he held a manila envelope.

"What—what are you doing here?" Jace asked.

His father met his gaze, his own unreadable. "I could ask you the same thing, Son. Waiting for someone?"

Jace glanced over his father's shoulder, hoping Clary didn't show up now. "Uh . . ." He looked again, his heart thudding in his chest.

"She's not coming, Jace."

Jace froze, every muscle in his body seizing up as he registered what his father had just said. _She's not coming_. Jace swallowed. "I don't know what you—"

"The Morgenstern girl," his father said, still no emotion in his tone. "She's not coming."

Jace drew in a breath and released it slowly.

"Aren't you going to ask me how I know about the two of you?" His father closed the distance between them, now only standing a foot away.

"How do you know?" Jace asked, his own voice barely a whisper.

His father glanced down at the envelope in his hands and twirled it a few times between his fingers. Jace couldn't help how his eyes were drawn to it. What the hell was it?

"I had a visitor waiting for me when I got home today. Do you know who it was?"

Jace shook his head, his pulse pounding in his ears.

"Valentine Morgenstern."

This time he swore his heart stopped completely.

"He had quite the story to spin," his father continued. "It seems his daughter had some mishap at school and was admitted to the hospital."

"What?" Jace said, his heart slamming back into its normal rhythm. "What happened? Is she all right? Is she—"

His father held up his hand, something flashing through his eyes. "The girl is fine." He studied his son. "Though your reaction tells me I don't need to ask you if his claims of you seeing his daughter are true." He paused. "I probably don't need to ask if it's true you are the father of her unborn child either, do I?"

Jace stepped back, his balance unsteady, and ran a hand through his hair. "Look, Dad, I—"

"I don't want to hear it," his father snapped, his old anger flooding his voice. "Do you have any idea what you've done? Any at all?"

"Dad, I—"

"No! Don't 'Dad' me. Don't call me 'Dad'. I'm not your dad. I didn't raise you to be so damn stupid, did I?" His father lifted the envelope and shook it in Jace's face. "That girl was fifteen-years-old, Jace. Fifteen damn years old! Do you know what that means?"

Jace gripped his hair harder. "I—I didn't know then. I was drunk. I was—"

"It doesn't matter what you knew! It doesn't matter that you were drunk!" his father roared. "Do you know what he's threatening?" His father ripped open the envelope and thrust a document at Jace. Jace grabbed it, his fingers trembling. Looking down, he realized it was a legal complaint, written out against him. He felt like he'd been kicked in the gut.

"But . . ." His eyes scanned the document, unable to make sense of anything he was seeing. This wasn't right.

Victim: Clarissa Morgenstern.

Alleged perpetrator: Jace Wayland.

Alleged crime: Sexual assault of a child (Statutory rape).

On and on the paper went, legal jargon Jace had no idea what it meant. The only thing he saw was the word rape. "But I didn't . . . I didn't . . . I would never . . ." He couldn't think, couldn't breathe. Valentine Morgenstern was accusing him of rape?

His father snatched the document back. "The girl was under the age of consent. She could not legally say yes." He shoved the paper back into the envelope. "Do you understand now? Has the meaning of this gotten through your head? The man wants to throw you in jail, and because she's pregnant, you have no way to claim it's a lie. Inside of her is irrefutable evidence that it was you, and when it happened."

Jace shook his head. "But I didn't rape her. I didn't—"

"You don't have to force yourself on a girl to be accused of rape! Not when she's that young!" His father took in a breath, seemingly trying to calm himself, but there was no calm inside of Jace. "But it appears he is giving you one chance."

Jace looked up, surprise and hope rippling through him like a tidal wave. "What? What does he want me to do?"

Jace's father leveled a stare at him. "He wants you to stay away from his daughter." He dug into the envelope again and pulled out another paper, this one with some lawyer's letterhead. "You sign this, which states you will stay away from his daughter, no contact at all, physical, text, phone, nothing, and he will drop the rape charge."

Jace stared at the letter and backed away as if it were diseased. "No," he said. "I'm not signing that shit." He glared at his father. "I love her. I promised her I'd stay with her, that I'd help her. That's my kid and I'm not leaving her to deal with it on her own."

"You have no choice."

"Of course I have a choice. There's always a choice, and I'm not leaving her. I'm not leaving them. I_ promised_."

His father drew out another paper, this one identical to the last one he had given Jace, with only a few slight differences. His name was on the top and Clary's signature was on the bottom. Jace ran his finger over the ink, feeling the indent of her name as she'd etched it into the paper.

"Apparently she's okay with not being with you."

"She wouldn't," he whispered, his eyes stinging. "She wouldn't agree to this. She loves me too. She wouldn't . . ."

"She did." His father handed him a small white envelope with Jace's name on it, written in Clary's hand.

With shaking fingers, Jace withdrew it from his father and opened it carefully, his breath catching when he saw her handwriting scrawled across the note. It was only one line, one line that tore him apart when he read it.

_Please don't fight this. ~Clary_

That was it, nothing else, no parting words, no "I'm sorry," nothing. Jace's throat was closing up, his chest aching with disbelief.

"Morgenstern is holding all the cards," his father said. "He wants to fry your ass, and the only reason he hasn't is because his girl agreed to sever all ties to you. If you sign this," he tapped the paper waiting for Jace's signature, "this," he held up the rape complaint, "goes away."

Jace swallowed hard and shook his head.

"Sign it, Jace. It's the only chance you have. If he files these charges, your life is over. No football scholarship and a sex offender charge on your record. Is that what you want?"

Jace shook his head again and closed his eyes, his mind going ten thousand miles a minute. All his plans, all the things he'd said, everything they'd shared, gone. With this piece of paper it was all gone. "I need to think," he said.

"What is there to think about? There are no other choices here! Sign the damn paper, Jace!"

"I said I need to think!" Jace opened his eyes, his words coming out loud and angry. Clary's letter crinkled in his hand. "This isn't as simple as just signing a piece of damn paper. She's my girl and she's," his voice broke, "she's having my kid. Mine. What the hell am I supposed to do? Just give them both up? Just walk away?"

"Yes," his father said. "Yes, you are. Morgenstern will never let you near them. Not without enacting this." He waved the complaint in the air. "And then where will you be? Rotting in jail? Served with a restraining order anyway? At least this way you can still have a life. Don't be a fool."

Anger washed over Jace, pure, undiluted rage. "This is all happening because of you!"

"I fail to see what any of this has to do with me."

"Don't give me that shit, Dad. We expected her father to be pissed—as pissed as any father would be, but this . . . this . . . bullshit is because of you! Because of this stupid feud or whatever the hell is going on between you two. He wants to stick it to you, so he's going to do it by destroying me. But what about Clary? What about her? He's going to make her have a baby on her own? Raise a baby on her own? What kind of piece of shit father does that? Especially when I'm _right here_!"

His father's eyes narrowed. "She's not going to raise it on her own. Morgenstern says the baby will be given up for adoption immediately after birth."

Jace's knees buckled and he only remained standing because of the cool, rock wall behind him.

Adoption.

They were giving his kid up, giving it up and not giving him a chance at all to be a father. The pattern was repeating. He would be no different than his biological father.

"No. They can't," he whispered, his voice barely loud enough for his own ears. "She said we'd decide together. She promised we would."

"It's done," his father said, pressing the envelope to Jace's chest. "And what did I tell you about believing anything a Morgenstern says? They're trash, the whole lot of them. Sign it. Sign it and move on with your life. You don't need to be held back by this any longer."

And then his father walked away, leaving Jace there, with the loss of all his hopes, his future, in his hands. He closed his eyes and slid down the wall, the snow on the ground soaking into the butt and legs of his jeans, but he didn't feel a thing. He was too consumed by the gaping hole left in his chest.

Clary's letter rustled in one fist, the envelope containing his only options: a sexual assault charge, or losing his reasons for everything, in the other. He'd already made his choice the moment he'd fallen in love with her, really, and his choice had left him alone. To protect him? Maybe. But still alone.

Alone, with no real choice left at all.

* * *

><p><em>So . . . those of you who couldn't wait for the parents to find out: I hope you're happy. *sad face*. I told you from the beginning the "r" word would come into play, now you see how.<em>

_A few things:_

_I've gotten a few anonymous comments lately asking questions and favors and leaving their email for me to contact them. First of all: the emails don't come through, FFN deletes them. And secondly, I'm not comfortable emailing people I don't know. If you want to talk with me about something, please get an account and PM me. It's the only way I'll respond._

_To the anonymous reviewer who wanted me to write a story with them: I'm flattered, but I don't do collabs. I have a very strange obsessive writing thing where I need all words and ideas to be my own. Even my beta does not give me plot/wording suggestions because she knows this about me. *blush* Sorry._

_To the anonymous poster that seemed offended by the "LOTS of sex" in 9Cs: this is a mature story with a mature theme (which has been outlined from the beginning). Sex, vulgar language, descriptive situations involving pregnancy and birth are to be expected. If this makes you uncomfortable, do not read this story. I won't apologize for the way this is written, nor for the content inside, but I must say that 3-4 mentions of sexual activity (with only one sex scene and one make out scene being fully written out) is not much at all considering this story is already well over 300 pages long and 150,000 words. But to each his/her own opinion. I do not write gratuitous sex. I will not write it. All scenes are integral to either plot and/or character/relationship development._

_Now that that is taken care of, please know that I appreciate all the support and love I've received in the duration of writing this story. I love all of you more than you know and strive to do my best to bring you a story worth reading. I appreciate every single review and regret that I can no longer respond to them all, but just know that I appreciate them more than I can ever say. _

_Until next time, XOXO ~ddpjclaf_

_Edited to add: Due to the reviews I've been receiving, I think some people are getting a little confused as to what Clary signed. She did NOT sign the legal complaint against Jace. She had nothing to do with that. She would never accuse him or allow anyone else to accuse him of something like that. What she signed is exactly what Michael is asking Jace to sign: a document promising to have no contact with the other person. We will probably hear more about this from her next chapter, but in essence, she signed it to keep her father from bringing Jace up on charges of statutory rape (which he has every right to since Clary WAS below the age of consent when she got pregnant. Like it or not, that's how it works!). Go ahead and be angry (I am!) but don't mistake what Clary did as being okay with the complaint, she is SO NOT._

_As for the adoption . . . we'll see how and what she is feeling about that next chapter. And remember what Michael said to Jace: It was VALENTINE who told him the baby would be given away. We have no idea what Clary has said about that, if anything.  
><em>


	20. Fight For Me

******The character names of The Mortal Instruments are owned by Cassandra Clare. The original content, ideas and intellectual property of this story are owned by ddpjclaf, 2011. Please do not copy, reproduce, or translate without express written permission.******

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Twenty - "Fight for Me"<strong>

_Angst lovers, rejoice! Everyone else, you have been warned. _

_Please read A/N at the bottom._

_A special thanks to ktut for pre-reading for me once again while LLWB is out of town. I appreciate your help so much!_

_Chapter songs:_

_**Blurry – Puddle of Mudd_

_**Falling Slowly – Glen Hansgard and Marketa Irglova_

_**Away From the Sun – 3 Doors Down_

_**Cry – Kelly Clarkson_

* * *

><p>Minutes passed.<p>

Hours.

Days.

It could have even been years as far as Jace could tell. Time kept moving, snow falling and accumulating around him, but Jace didn't. He just sat there, still, frozen, frigid water seeping through his clothing and snowflakes melting in his hair. His body shook with cold, but still he didn't move himself from his spot against the cemetery wall.

His hand clutched Clary's letter, and the manila envelope containing the legal documents now rested in his lap. Over and over again he replayed what his father had said, the words he'd read on the documents, but nothing made sense.

_Do you have any idea what you've done? Any at all?_

Jace closed his eyes and rested his head back against the hard, cold wall. His thoughts were jumbled, nonsensical. He felt the snow falling on him and tried to concentrate, to figure out what to do next, but all he could see was Clary the last time they'd been together at the cemetery. He could feel her hands on him, her teasing kiss on the end of his nose, see the flakes as they'd clung to her lashes, and the pink of her cheeks when he'd said he wanted to marry her someday. Then he recalled the words on the document, her signature scrawled across the bottom, his father's voice as he'd told Jace to sign it too. And it was as if all those moments, all those times he'd felt like maybe, just maybe it would all be okay, were ripped away. Stolen. Thrown into the wind.

Rape.

They were accusing him of rape. He still couldn't wrap his mind around it.

_You don't have to force yourself on a girl to be accused of rape!_

He wasn't stupid, he knew the difference between statutory rape and _rape_, rape. But he couldn't get past the ugliness of the word, the connotation it held. It didn't matter what kind it was, whenever anyone heard the term, they would all think the same thing: that he'd forced himself on her, taken advantage of her in some way. Forever that image would be associated with him.

A sexual predator.

A monster.

A stigma that never went away.

It had always been in the back of his mind that he had done that. That he had taken advantage of her, that'd she'd been too out of it to know better and he should have. She was drunk, wasn't thinking clearly, and he had pinned her up against the door and taken her anyway.

Had he known at the time that he was committing a crime? That she was as young as she was? Had he thought about it at all? Had either of them? Or had their minds been so clouded with alcohol and lust that they didn't realize?

He tried to comfort himself with the thought that that was it, but he didn't know for sure. Maybe she'd told him her age. Maybe she had and he just hadn't cared. But he couldn't remember. God, he wished he could remember, wished he knew it with such clarity that he could be sure. But always, _always,_ there was this nagging fear in the back of his mind. One that asked him: _what if? What if you did this horrible thing? What if she hadn't wanted it? What if you pushed her? What if . . ._

The thought made him feel dirty all over. He shuddered and his stomach rolled, nausea sweeping over him and making him swallow against the urge to vomit.

No. _No. _

Jace shook his head at the thoughts. It wasn't like that. He knew it wasn't. What he and Clary had done was consensual.

He waded through the fragmented memories of that night: laughter and jokes and eyes looking up at him from beneath crimson lashes. Hands in his hair, nails in his back, breath in his ear, wet mouth on his neck. Legs around his waist, squeezing him, holding him, keeping him close. And even though that's all there was—those snippets of something so much bigger than either of them could remember—he could still feel how much he'd wanted her, how much she'd wanted him. And it was enough for him to be certain that what they'd shared was not this sick, disgusting thing their fathers were calling it. It was more. So, so much more.

Oh, God. He lowered his head into his hands. It didn't matter. That's what this whole thing was about. It didn't matter whether she'd said yes, whether they'd both wanted it. She was underage. She was underage, and he wasn't. That's all the courts needed. That's all anyone needed.

It didn't matter that he loved her, that she loved him, that he would never hurt her, that all he wanted more than anything was to protect her. Nothing mattered but what Valentine Morgenstern wanted to matter, and what mattered to him was destroying Jace's father. And it _certainly _didn't matter if he achieved that by destroying Jace first.

Jace glanced down at the manila envelope resting in his lap. Hot rage washed over him. Why? _Why_ was this happening? To him. To Clary. To their kid. Why did their parents have to step in and act like they knew better what to do? Why were they taking away everything he'd been fighting so hard to do well by? And why was _she_ letting them?

The envelope crinkled in his hand as Jace's fingers clenched involuntarily. In his mind, he knew _why_, but his heart could not accept the reasoning. Jace had promised to stay, to fight, to do everything in his power to support and love her. So, why was she giving in so easily? Without speaking to him first? Without so much as an apology? Just a cold note stuck inside an envelope of lies.

He knew she didn't want him in trouble, knew without a doubt that was why she had signed that paper. But even knowing that didn't stop the feeling of betrayal from setting in. Jace wasn't a stranger to the sentiment of nobility; he knew if it were her being threatened, he would have done the same. But it wasn't her, and he didn't need her protection. He just needed her.

With a sudden burst of determination, Jace stood, his freezing bones and muscles crying out in protest. He rolled the envelope up and stuffed it into the band of his pants, before starting out toward where he'd parked. Rows and rows of stones passed, but his feet never slowed, never stumbled, until he reached _her_ row.

For a moment he considered going to her, seeking her advice, listening to the wind for her answer. But deep inside he already knew what she'd say. Her life and her death had been all the advice he'd ever need.

Closing his eyes, Jace lifted his face to the sky, taking in the fresh scent of cold and feeling the icy flakes fall to his face. It was calming, in a way, and helped to solidify his decision even further. When he opened his lids, there was nothing but gray above him. Gray, just like the situation he was in. There was no black and white, no right or wrong, there just was. He and Clary _were. _Nothing either of their parents could say or do could change that. They could try by separating them by threatening Jace with jail time if they didn't stay away from one another. But Jace wasn't falling for that shit.

Sure, he could walk away, he could save himself, he could give up. But he wasn't his mother, and he was pretty sure his mother didn't want him to be. He owed Clary more than that. He owed his child more than that. Hell, he owed himself more than that.

Jace glanced down the row toward where his mother was buried. Underneath a drift of snow, he could make out the cracked pot next to her headstone. A gust of wind pushed him from behind, urging him toward the gates and away from that place, away from his mother's weakness and failure. Toward his future, toward the unknown, toward his girl.

Shaking his head, Jace glanced down at the ground and smiled. "Yeah, Mom, I'm going."

The wind shoved again, prodding, encouraging, answering, and Jace thought, _I won't give up_. His hand closed around the envelope again. _No matter what, I won't ever give up._

.o.O.o.

"Do you need another pillow, sweetheart?" Clary's mother asked as she fluffed the ones behind Clary again, as if somehow her messing with them would make them fatter. As if this attention would make up for everything else.

Clary didn't answer, she just turned her back to her mother and stared at the wall. The beeping of the heart monitor continued, as did her mother's obsessive fluffing.

The door to her room opened and a nurse walked in with another bag of saline in her arms. She stepped up to the bed beside Clary, hung the bag on the hook and checked all the crap on the monitor. Then she turned to Clary, put on a blood pressure cuff, and asked a bunch of stupid questions Clary didn't feel like answering, so her mother answered instead. The fact that she was doing this—acting like she knew everything that was going on with Clary—grated on Clary's nerves, but she let her continue. Why? Because she didn't feel like talking to anyone right then.

When the nurse left, Clary heard her mother sigh, and the chair to the side of the bed creaked. Clary closed her eyes. Why wouldn't she just leave? She had to know Clary didn't want her there, didn't need her there. There was only one person she wanted, one person she needed, and they'd taken him away.

"Clary," her mother started, "I really wish you'd talk to me. Tell me how you feel."

"I wish you'd go away," Clary said finally.

"I know you're angry, honey, but you have to know this is for your own—"

Clary flipped over and glared at her mother. "Don't say this is for my own good. This isn't for me at all."

"Sweetheart," her mother reached for her, and Clary slapped her hand away.

"God. Just _stop!_" she squeezed her eyes shut to try and calm her anger, and then opened them slowly. "You don't know anything about what's good for me. You don't know anything about me at all. We were doing just fine before all of you found out. We were _fine._" Her voice caught and she swallowed against the tightness there.

"We. You mean you and that boy," her mother said, her voice tinged with disapproval.

"His name is Jace, not 'that boy'. And yes. _We_ were doing just fine. We were figuring this out by ourselves."

"Oh, yes, I'm sure you were. As much as a sixteen-year-old and an eighteen-year-old can figure out how to deal with something like this. You have no idea what you're in for. None at all. It's hard enough being pregnant, but to do it in high school? You should have told me. You should have come to me. I could have helped you."

"Oh really? Where would you have fit me in, what with how busy you always are."

Her mother drew in a breath and looked away. Clary didn't feel the least bit remorseful about what she'd said, either. Her mother hadn't been there. She deserved to feel bad.

Quietly, her mother spoke, "I'm sorry about not being there. But I'm here now, Clary."

Clary turned back over and blinked against the tears starting to form. She'd have thought they'd have dried up by now. "Yeah, well, too little, too late. I don't need you now. I need him."

There was a long pause between Clary's words and her mother's. "This is better than the alternative. And I know you know that, or else you wouldn't have signed the no contact order."

Clary closed her eyes, the tears she'd been holding back sliding over her cheeks. "I had no other choice," she whispered.

"Yes, you did. You could have let your father go through with his plan and let the courts decide whether or not Jace was guilty. It was your choice to let him go."

Clary sat up, her head throbbing with the movement. "And what would you have done, Mom? Let the boy you love go to jail for being with you? For doing something with you that you asked him to do?"

Jocelyn's brows rose.

"Yeah, Mom, it was my fault what happened," Clary said, the images of her pulling Jace in, her hands twisted in his clothes, swirling through her mind. "I wanted him. I asked him. This is my fault, my doing. Why would I let him pay with his future for something I did?"

"You said you didn't remember." Jocelyn's voice was strained.

"I don't. Not all of it. But I remember enough. I remember how he tried to leave. How he tried to be a gentleman. And how I asked him to stay." Clary shook her head, the tears coming faster. "He has done nothing but be good to me, take care of me, love me. And that's how I should treat him? 'Let the courts decide?' No. I would rather have to live without him than do that. He doesn't deserve that. But it doesn't mean I'm happy about it. I'm not. I hate this. I hate you and Dad and his dad. So don't tell me this is for my own good. I did this for his."

Before her mother could answer, the door opened once more and Clary's brother, Jonathan, stepped into the room. His face was pinched, his eyes hard, and his hands clenched into fists. Clary didn't need to ask; she could see he already knew everything. A choked sob came from her throat, and his face softened. Without so much as a greeting for their mother, Jonathan crossed the room and had his arms around Clary before she could take another breath.

"God, Clare-bear. Are you okay?"

Her shoulder muffled his voice, and Clary buried her face in his neck. Her hands fisted in the back of his t-shirt, and she held him tight to her. Ignoring his question, she asked one of her own, "Are you mad?"

He let out a long sigh and his warm breath washed over her neck. "I'm furious," he said. "God, I don't even know what to think. I just—I want to kill him."

Clary clutched her brother tighter. "Don't, Jonathan. Don't blame him. Please. It—it's not like that. I love him. I love him so much and I can't—"

"Shh," Jonathan said as he pulled away, his hand brushing back the hair sticking to Clary's forehead. "It's okay, baby girl. It's okay."

"No, it's not," Clary said, her voice trembling. "It's not okay at all." Her eyes shifted to her mother, who had stood from her chair and was studying Clary and Jonathan. "They're saying . . . they're trying to . . ."

"I know," he said. "Dad told me when he called." Jonathan paused, his dark eyes appraising her, questioning. "So, you really are . . . you really did . . . with him?"

More tears slipped over her cheeks.

Jonathan swore and looked away.

"But it wasn't like that, Jonathan. He never . . . he wouldn't . . ."

Jonathan reached up and brushed her tears away. "You know they're not accusing him of forcing anything on you, right? It . . . it's different than that."

"I know, but it's still wrong. It was my decision to be with him. He doesn't deserve this."

"Of course you don't think he deserves it," her father's voice came from the doorway, as he walked into the room. "He's got you believing everything can be all sunshine and roses, and you can just ride off into the sunset together. He's a Wayland, that's what they do. Lie. But that's not how this works. You're a child, Clarissa, and there are consequences for your actions. Both of your actions."

Jonathan turned toward their father. "Dad, come on—"

But Clary didn't need her brother to fight her battles for her. "You keep talking to me like I'm stupid," she said. "I'm not stupid. I've never thought everything was all peachy. And I knew there were consequences, but I—"

"Oh, really?" her father asked, one white brow raised. "What exactly did you think was going to happen then? Did you think we'd welcome him and his . . . his . . . _seed_ into our home with open arms? Just because you think you're _in love_ with him?" He stepped toward her, his arm extended and his finger pointing at her. "You don't know the first thing about what it means to be in love. And you certainly don't know the first thing about what it's like to deal with a Wayland. You think you know everything. You think you have this all figured out, but you don't know a damn thing. And there's no God-damn way I'm going to let you raise his child! If it were up to me, you wouldn't be carrying that thing at all anymore. As it is, we won't have to deal with it for long."

"Valentine!" her mother said.

Her father whipped around and glared at her mother. "You stay out of this. You wanted out of this family, so you're out. I will speak to my daughter any way I please."

"Dad!" Jonathan said, positioning himself between Clary and her father.

Valentine looked back at his son. "You don't want to get involved in this, Jonathan."

"She's my sister! I'm already involved."

"This is between her and me and Wayland, not—"

"It is _not_ between you!" Jonathan said, his body trembling visibly. "It's never been about you! It's about her and . . . and Jace."

Their father's eyes lit, as if someone had set him on fire on the inside. "Don't you _dare _say his name to me! Don't you—"

And then everything was a blur of shouting. Clary couldn't hear the words they were saying anymore, she could only see the rage in their red faces, the way their hands moved and fingers pointed, feel the way the room vibrated with the volume of their anger. She knew she should do something, say something, feel something, but she was numb. Completely and utterly numb. Her family, which had already been fractured, was splintering further, the pieces that were left falling and shattering on the ground. And it was her fault. All her fault.

She felt hands on her face, fingers on her arms, pulling her, tugging, tugging as if she were a prize to be won. Finally, she realized those hands and fingers belonged to her mother, and she was trying to get Clary's attention. But Clary didn't want her mother touching her, didn't want her at all. So, she pulled away and shot a glare in her direction. Her mother flinched back, and the shouting surrounding them got louder. Clary reached up and covered her ears, squeezing her eyes shut. It was too much. It was all too much.

"Stop it," she said, her voice only a whisper. She cleared her throat. "Stop it," she tried once more, louder this time, but not loud enough. Anger boiled in her veins, traveling faster and faster, making the monitor beside her bed speed out of control. "Stop it!" she screamed, and finally, _finally_, it was silent, except for the ragged pulls of her breath and the racing beep recording her pulse.

She opened her eyes to find her entire family looking at her. Clary could feel how hot her face was under the streams of tears coating her cheeks. There were so many things she wanted to say, so many things she needed them to hear, but she was just tired now. Tired and sad and _done_.

Clary drew in a breath. "Just _stop_," she said.

Jonathan's forehead creased and his shoulders fell, the anger slipping away into defeat and sadness. He turned toward her and reached out, "Clare-bear . . ."

But Clary shook her head. "No," she said, and his arm dropped to his side. Her eyes drifted between the three of them, seeing the varying emotions playing on their faces: shock, sadness, anger. "No," she whispered. "You don't get to do this. You don't get to make this about you or our issues as a family, or with that _stupid_ feud. This is about me. Me and only me. I'm the one that's pregnant. I'm the one! So the rest of you can stay out of it. And, God, leave Jace out of it." She turned to her father. "I did what you wanted me to do. I promised I wouldn't see him. I signed your stupid papers. Now just . . . leave him alone. Don't talk about him or threaten him or do . . . anything to him. Leave him _alone_."

"Yes, well, we'll see," her father said, straightening his tie which had somehow become disheveled in his argument. "The papers were delivered. When he signs," his eyes fell on Clary's face, "_When _he signs, and you finally see that all a Wayland can do is think of himself, his future, this will all be over and we can concentrate on the next step."

"What's . . . what's the next step?" Jonathan asked, his face creased with worry.

"Finding someone to take it off our hands," Clary's father said, as if _it_ weren't a child, as if it were a stray cat he'd found in a ditch somewhere. As if it weren't a part of her, a part of Jace.

Clary collapsed back onto the narrow bed, her knees instinctively pulling to her chest and her head curving down into the fetal position. She was exhausted, physically and emotionally, and she had no fight left. All she wanted was for them to all leave, for them to go take their opinions and arguments somewhere else so she could think and lay in peace. Alone. How she was going to have to get used to being from now on.

A throat cleared from the doorway, and Clary looked up. A nurse stood with her hands on the handles of a wheelchair. "Is everything okay in here?"

"Yes," Clary's father answered, his voice as cool and calm as ever.

"Okay, well, I've come to get Miss Morgenstern for her ultrasound?" For some reason she phrased it as a question, as if she weren't sure at all what she was there to do.

"Ultrasound?" Her mother stood. "Is there a problem we don't know of?"

"Oh, no." The nurse came around to the side of the bed and offered a small, kind smile to Clary. "It's nothing like that. We just want to double-check a few things. There's no need for alarm." She leaned down and helped Clary to a sitting position, and then down into the chair.

"Can I come with her?" Clary's mother asked.

"Sure," said the nurse, at the same time Clary said, "No."

The nurse paused and glanced between Clary and her mother.

Clary turned away and looked out the door. "I don't want her there. I don't want either of my parents there." She paused. "But my brother can come, if he wants."

"Oh, uh, yeah, I guess. If you want me to?" Jonathan said.

Clary nodded but still didn't look at him. He wasn't the one she wanted, but he was the only one she could trust among the people allowed to be with her. She could hear her parents arguing with the nurse, but blocked them out the best she could. All she heard were snippets like, "But she's a minor!" and "She's the patient; it's her right." thrown through the air. And then the chair was moving through the door and down the sterile hall. Clary tried to avoid the inevitable eyes on her, but she could still feel them, boring into her as if she weren't just a pregnant sixteen-year-old girl, but a girl with some highly contagious disease. The gazes inched over her, itching her skin like a spider crawling up her back.

When they reached the end of the corridor, a warm, gentle hand cupped her shoulder. "Are you okay, dear?" the nurse asked.

Clary shrugged, because she honestly didn't know. Jonathan's fingers brushed over her arm and laced with hers.

The nurse patted her. "It'll be okay, I'm sure. Sometimes it takes parents a while to come to terms with something like this, but they almost always do."

Clary was positive her parents never would.

They went a bit further, and then the nurse stopped outside another door. She came around and knelt in front of Clary, her face sincere.

"Have you had an ultrasound before, Clary?"

Clary nodded.

"Okay, good, so you know what to expect?"

Clary nodded again.

The nurse smiled. "Well, there is one question I need to ask. The technician always likes to know before she gets started."

"What?" Clary asked, fear catching in her throat.

The nurse's hand covered hers, and her voice was soft when she said, "Would you like to know whether your baby is a boy or a girl?"

.o.O.o.

Jace's hands tightened around the steering wheel. He'd been sitting in the same spot for more than ten minutes, his eyes trained on the entrance of the building and his heart thudding against his ribs like a dozen racing horses. People came and went, some dressed in street clothes and some in professional attire. And even though he knew what he had to do, he knew what it would cost him to do it.

He drew in a breath and held it for several seconds before letting it out, slowly, agonizingly. Back in the cemetery, his decision seemed set, easy, as if there were no other decision to make. But now that he was there, now that he was staring up into the face of his fate, a fate of his own choosing, he couldn't seem to make his damn legs move.

His whole life had been about one thing, and one thing only: football. Football and fame and notoriety. Nothing else had ever been important. Jace had never had to worry about money or what career he might choose later on. All of that was a given, because he was already rich; he was already amazing, talented, a sure thing . . . What he had never considered was: what if none of that shit mattered? It seemed like an impossibility. At least, until he realized that the life he'd led before wasn't really living at all.

And that was where he was now. None of it mattered. Everything he'd ever thought had, didn't. So what, really, did he have to lose?

With another inhale, Jace steeled himself against the fear crushing his lungs, and climbed out of the car. Icy wind and snow swirled around him, but he didn't feel a thing. If he let himself, he may back down, and this was not a time where he could afford to be a coward. He'd been one every single day he'd let his father and his fear rule his life. But he was done now. Done letting someone else tell him how to live, to dictate what he could and could not do. He was taking control, rising back up on top. Destroy his life or not, he was the master of his own destiny. And that destiny was starting today.

His legs carried him across the parking lot, pausing only long enough for the electronic doors to slide open and let him inside. A whoosh of chemically laced air washed over him as he stepped over the threshold. Doctors and Nurses scurried around him, not giving him a second glance as they moved from room to room, shouting orders and scribbling notes onto their clipboards. Jace continued down the tiled hall, his head high, back straight, even though he was quaking inside.

At the end of the corridor, the space opened into a large waiting area, with dozens of chairs and a long, raised nurses' station to one side. He hesitated, nearly tripping a nurse who barreled into him from behind when he stopped. She gave him a dirty look and hugged her charts close to her chest as she continued her trek. Jace ran his hands through his hair, before starting forward once more.

He had no idea what the hell he was going to say. He knew no one would give him any information since he wasn't family, but he had to at least try. Maybe they'd buy that he was her brother? No, shit, that was disturbing to even think about. Plus, what if Jonathan was already there? They'd know immediately. Maybe he could just tell them he was the baby's father? Or maybe he could just sneak—

"Jace?"

He froze when he heard his name, and then slowly turned toward the voice. Eager, dark eyes, staring out from a familiar face, met him. Isabelle stood slowly, her brows creasing as she moved toward him.

"I thought that was you," she said. "What are you doing here?"

He lifted his hand, then dropped it to his thigh. "Where else would I be?"

"Uh, anywhere else? I mean, you know they know, right?"

He nodded and pulled the rolled up envelope from the band in his pants, tapping it against his palm a few times. "Yeah. I got the memo."

She frowned, and studied the envelope. "What's that?"

Jace shook his head and tucked the papers back into his belt. "It's nothing. How is she?"

"I don't know. No one has told me anything, but I saw her and Jonathan go with a nurse a while ago." Isabelle pointed toward the opposite end of the room, where a long corridor began. "I heard the nurse say something about an ultrasound, but I don't know . . ." She trailed off.

An ultrasound? Shit. Was something wrong with the baby? There were so many thoughts going through Jace's mind, so many questions, but it was pointless to voice any of them, since it was obvious Isabelle knew as little as he did. Jace rubbed at the back of his neck. "But she's okay, right? I mean, you saw her, so she must be . . ."

"I don't know. I mean, she looked fine, but . . ." she said, then looked up at Jace, her dark eyes filled with remorse. "I'm sorry. I should have called you, warned you, but I . . . I panicked. She passed out and hit her head. She was bleeding. I—I didn't know what else to do." She sat down in the nearest chair, her head resting in her hands. "God, I have no idea how her parents reacted, but it couldn't have been pretty. I just—"

"You did the right thing, Isabelle," Jace said. "They were going to find out sooner or later anyway." He ran his fingers over his forehead, a dull ache starting right in the middle. "I just wish we could have told them in our own way. We were planning to. Soon."

"Do you really think that would have mattered?" Isabelle asked, standing and taking his arm. "Listen, you shouldn't be here. You don't know Clary's dad. He's . . . well, let's just say he can be a major jackass. If he sees you here—"

And that's when Jace heard it.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

Jace turned toward the sound, everything around him seeming to slow. Eyes followed his, and then looked back at him, but all he saw were the black ones attempting to bore a hole in his skull.

"Too late," Isabelle muttered, but instead of moving away, she attempted to half-shield Jace with her body.

Valentine Morgenstern stalked across the room, his body rigid with anger and hate. "Answer me, boy," he said. "What the hell do you think you're doing here?"

Jace swallowed, his nerves threatening to reveal his fear, but he couldn't afford to show it now. "I just wanted to see how she is."

"She is none of your concern," Valentine said. "You have no right to be here!"

"With all due respect, sir, this is a public place. I have every right to be here."

Morgenstern narrowed his eyes.

Jace stood a little straighter, trying his hardest to not let the man see him intimidated. "And Clary's my girlfriend. She and our kid are my concern."

"You little son of a bitch," Morgenstern sprang toward Jace, knocking Isabelle out of the way, before grabbing the front of Jace's shirt and yanking him forward. His collar dug into his neck, and Jace could hear the fabric starting to give. "You're not even going to try to deny it, are you? You're that much of smug bastard. Just like your father!"

Jace's natural instinct was to rip Morgenstern's hands off from him and fight back, but he hesitated, not wanting to do anything to incite the man further. Plus, he could see the nurses at the station watching the situation, their hands at the ready to call security if need be. He didn't want any more ammunition against him than there already was. He could never accomplish what he'd come to do if he caused any more trouble.

Jace lifted his hands at his sides, palm out, letting the man—and everyone else—know he did not intend to fight him back. "I'm sorry. I'm not here to cause trouble. I just want to know if she's okay."

"Of course she's not okay!" Morgenstern spat. "She's a knocked up sixteen-year-old girl! How the hell could that be okay? And don't come in here apologizing to me, as if you mean it. You're just an arrogant little asshole like your father! You destroyed my daughter! You don't deserve the leniency I've already offered you."

Anger skipped along Jace's body, sparking and jumping over his skin. He swallowed again, the act almost impossible with how tightly the fabric of his shirt was around his neck. He could feel it digging into his skin and was certain he'd have a mark from it later. He could walk away. This was his last chance and he knew it.

Instead, he wrapped his hand around Morgenstern's and squeezed, trying to pull it out of his shirt. "I'm _not_ my father, and I don't want your leniency," he said. "I want your daughter. I want to do all the things I promised her I would. And I'm here to tell her that."

"The hell you are!" Morgenstern said, one of his hands drawing away and pulling back.

"Daddy, no!"

Morgenstern froze at the voice and peered over his shoulder. Jace followed his gaze. And there she was, standing at the opening to the opposite corridor, her brother to one side, a nurse to the other, and a discarded wheelchair behind her. She took a step forward, her face a twisted mix of anger and pain. The nurse tried to grab her arm, but she shook her off.

"Clarissa, go back to your room," her father said.

"No." Clary took another step, the drab hospital gown swishing around her legs, and shook her head. "Take your hands off him, Dad."

"Clarissa. Now, I mean it—"

"No!" Clary's voice echoed throughout the now silent room, her face fixed into a frightening scowl and her hands balled into fists at her sides. "Take your hands off him, now!"

Suddenly, Jonathan was there, his hands prying at his father's. "Come on, Dad, let him go."

It took several tries before Jace was loose. Jonathan pulled his father away, and then there was no barrier between Jace and Clary at all.

He stared at her, and she stared back at him. Her hands were trembling, and her eyes were wet. Slowly, Jace moved toward her, aware of the scuffle beside him and the shouts of protest coming from her father, but Jace didn't let any of that stop him. He'd come for this, for her, and he was not leaving until he'd said what he had to say.

.o.O.o.

He was there, standing only inches in front of her, and Clary still wondered if she were dreaming. Her father was yelling at the nurses to get security, spouting off warnings of calling the police, and calling Jace horrible names over and over again. Her brother held him steady in his grasp, his body straining with effort. But nothing, not even the threats, made Jace flinch.

Clary met his gaze, barely able to see him through the tears in her eyes. "Why are you here?" she asked, her voice hoarse.

"Why do you think, Clary?"

She shook her head, swiping at the moisture that trailed down her cheeks. "You shouldn't be here," she whispered. "I—I told you not to . . . You know what he'll do if you don't go."

Her eyes flickered to the spectacle of her red-faced father, and she noticed a couple of security guards come into the room. Their gazes immediately went to her father since he was the one making the biggest scene, but he pointed at Jace and Clary, shouted something about the bogus charges, and the guards started over. She held out her hand to ward them off. They paused, confusion crossing their faces, and their stares shifted from Jace and Clary to her father and Jonathan, clearly puzzled as to what they were called to do, and who were the ones really causing the trouble.

Jace didn't say anything in response to Clary's statements, instead, his focus moved to her temple and his brows drew together. Reaching out, he touched her just outside of her stitches, his thumb so gentle she barely felt him. She couldn't control it as her eyes fell shut and she released a trembling breath. Every time he touched her it was as if someone had brushed her skin with fire.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

Nodding her head, Clary looked up at him. "Yes. I'm fine." The guards held back, and Clary's father seemed to have turned his attention, and anger, on Jonathan for the moment. Isabelle had come to stand beside them and was wearing her bitch-face as she sided with Clary's brother.

"And . . .?" Jace's eyes lowered to her stomach. He didn't touch her there, but Clary could tell by the way he paused and dropped his hand that he wanted to.

"Yes," she said, pausing nervously before adding, "He's fine too."

Her last words were so quiet she wasn't sure he'd even heard them, until his nod stopped and his forehead creased. Slowly, his eyes met hers.

"He?"

A single tear slipped over her cheek as Clary nodded. She'd been afraid to know in the beginning, thinking maybe it would make whatever decision they had to make harder. But when she was in that room, looking at the tiny black and white profile with her nose and Jace's mouth, she felt something shift inside of her, and she had to know.

Jace drew in a shuddering breath and his hands twitched at his sides once more.

"Are you okay?" she asked him this time.

"Yes," he whispered. "I just . . . I want to . . . I want to hold you so badly right now."

"Jace . . ." she said, her throat closing around her words, because more than anything, she wanted that too, needed that too. She could feel her arms aching, her hands itching to touch him. "You shouldn't be here. You need to go. Please, _please_, just go."

Jace didn't meet her gaze, his attention still on her stomach. Clary couldn't read the look on his face, but it wasn't the one she thought he'd have.

"Have you ever had one of those moments," he said, "an epiphany, I guess, or maybe a turning point where everything you ever thought you knew, you realized you'd just been a damn fool all along and really didn't know shit?"

"Jace, please—"

"Because I had one of those," he continued. "Today, when my father gave me this." He pulled a rolled up manila envelope out of the band of his pants and slowly flattened it in his palm. "It felt like my whole world just exploded around me, you know? I mean, everything, _everything_, I'd worked for could be destroyed by this one piece of paper. My entire _life_ could be destroyed by this." He reached inside the envelope and pulled out three sheets, holding up the top one, which Clary saw was the complaint her father had drawn up against Jace. Her breath caught. "And do you know what I found out?"

His gaze met hers, and Clary shook her head.

"I found out that I don't really give a shit." And before Clary could even think, Jace grasped the paper with both hands and tore it down the middle. "I don't give a shit about any of it." He ripped it again. "I don't care if I lose my scholarships," another rip, "I don't care if they send me to jail," another rip, "I don't even care if I have to live for the rest of my life with that night branded on my forehead for everyone to see," a final rip, "Because none of that: football, reputation, freedom, is worth anything to me if, to get it, I have to give up the things that make my life worth a damn in the first place."

Clary shook her head again, unable to speak through the tightness in her throat and the tears clouding her vision.

Jace reached out for her and finally, _finally_, took her face in his hands. His fingers were cold, but again, one touch from him burned through her like a flame. "I can't give you up, Clary. I _can't_."

"You have to," she managed.

"I don't." He stared down at her. "I won't. Remember after the first ultrasound when I told you I would keep trying with you, even though you kept pushing me away, because I thought you might be worth it?"

"Jace . . ."

"I don't think anymore, Clary," he whispered. "I know you're worth it. Our . . . our son is worth it."

_Our son._ The sound of that phrase didn't scare her as much as it once had, as much as it still probably should. Clary wrapped her hands around his wrists. She could barely breathe through the tightness in her chest.

"I promised you I wouldn't leave," he continued. "I promised you we'd do this together, and I will fight to keep that promise. I will fight for you." Jace leaned in and touched his forehead to hers. "Will you fight for me, Clary? No matter what happens. No matter what our parents do to keep us apart? Will you fight for me too?"

She let out a quiet sob. "Please don't do this."

"I have to," he said, his lips now against her forehead, his voice shaking. "I couldn't live with myself if I walked away. You know that."

She did know. And even when she'd signed those papers she'd known he wouldn't stand for it. But she had to try. She had to try to save him anyway. Clary moved her hands up his forearms, over his biceps and shoulders, and cupped his face. "God, you're so stubborn."

"It's part of my charm." His mouth was just before hers now, and she could feel his breath on her lips.

"I don't want you to do this," she said, her words pleading with him, her heart aching to the point of fracture. "I love you too much to let you do this."

"And I love you too damn much not to." His thumbs moved over her cheeks. "I can't be like him, Clary. I can't walk away. Please don't ask me to."

Clary clenched her eyes shut and held his face tighter, her fingers hooked around his jaw, clinging to him as if he were a life vest holding her above water. Maybe he was, because she felt like she was plunged into the middle of the ocean with no land in sight. It was cold and dark and scary out there, but as long as she held him, she felt like maybe she could make it, that they could make it. But he was asking her to let go, to let him float out there alone, and she couldn't stand the thought of doing that. When it was her doing it to help him, it seemed bearable, but this way it was like she was leaving him there, bleeding, in the middle of a ring of sharks.

She shook her head, and his hand brushed back her hair, his lips touching her eyelids. "Please, baby."

Her heart jerked. God, did he know how impossible this was for her, the horribleness of the thing he was asking her to do? How could she just let him go, let him take all this crap her father was throwing out there? She wanted to be strong, to tell him no, to make him go, but she was not strong. She was weak, and all she wanted to do was cry, cry so hard and so much that maybe it would dry her out for good.

"I know you don't want to, Clary. God, I know. And I love that you want to protect me, but, please, _please_, let me do this. I need to do this. I'm going to do this. And I need you behind me when I do."

His words washed over her, sure, proud, and she could hear how much he wanted this, feel how much he needed it. So, with resolve, she pulled back a little, wiped her face once more, and gestured to the envelope he had tucked under his arm. "Give me the papers," she said.

Jace gave her a confused look, but handed her the envelope regardless. Clary took it from him, and with her heart slamming so hard against her ribs she was sure everyone in the room could hear it, her shaking fingers plucked the last two papers into her hand and let the envelope fall to the floor. Jace's gaze met hers, steady and clear.

"I am behind you," she said. And with her eyes on his, Clary tore the papers down the center, the sound deafening in the quiet room. Her hands quaked with fear, knowing what her father would do, and seeing him do it from the corner of her eyes, the rise of his cell phone to his ear unmistakable. Tears spilled over her cheeks, but she kept ripping, shredding the documents into smaller and smaller pieces, until they were nothing but confetti at her feet. "And I will always fight for you."

Clary didn't have time to think before Jace's mouth was on hers, hard, insistent, his "thank yous" and "I love yous" spilling over her lips. She held onto him, one hand fisting the back of his shirt and the other in his hair. She cried against his mouth, barely able to breathe, as the taste of salt mixed with their kiss. Jace's arms were around her, the whole length of him curved over her, and it was then that a sense of rightness settled on her. All day she'd been surrounded by people who were technically her family, her parents, her brother, but it wasn't until that moment, encircled by Jace, that she truly felt at home. She never wanted that feeling to end.

But too soon, it did.

One moment he was in her arms, his lips on her lips, his heart beating against hers, and the next he was ripped from her, surprisingly, violently. She reached out for him, but other arms caught her, these not so comforting or warm. Clary struggled against them, knowing somewhere in the back of her mind that she shouldn't, but not able to stop herself.

In front of her, hospital security surrounded Jace, two of them yanking his arms behind his back and holding them there like he was a common criminal. He didn't fight them, didn't say a word, yet they handled him roughly, pushing and pulling as if he were resisting.

Clary felt her own body being restrained, but they didn't treat her the way they treated him. "Wait," she said. "Wait!"

"Take her back to her room," her father's voice sounded, and suddenly he was there between them, standing in the way, blocking her view of what was happening with Jace.

"Daddy, stop it. Please." she was aware of the begging in her tone, but she just didn't care anymore. "Please. You don't have to do this. Don't _do_ this!"

Her father didn't even look at her; he just continued dialing on his phone. "He had his chance, Clarissa." Now his eyes met hers. "You both did."

"Daddy—!"

"Take her! Now."

Clary struggled against the hands holding her, and then others replaced them, these more careful, but still strong.

"Don't fight it," Jonathan whispered in her ear. "Please, Clary."

"Jonathan," she said, her voice thick with grief. "What are they doing to him? Where are they taking him?"

"I'm sorry, Clary," was all he said, but Clary heard everything she needed to in his tone. She'd already known it anyway.

"No," the word came out in a moan. "No, no, no, no!"

"Don't watch." Jonathan stepped in front of her, shielding her from what he thought she shouldn't see. But she needed to see, needed to know.

She pushed against him. "Get out of my way, Jonathan. Let me go!" But he didn't, his arms tightened and he was now practically carrying her away. "Stop! Stop! Please!" Nothing she said made him stop. She craned her neck around his shoulder and caught a glimpse of what was happening.

Jace still wasn't fighting. He just walked toward the hospital exit, with several guards surrounding him, two still holding his arms, his head held high and no sign of regret on his face. Her father followed behind them, his cell phone still to his ear, spewing something into the receiver and waving his hand in the air. He looked proud, like he'd finally caught the fly he was chasing in his trap. Clary had never hated him more than she did in that moment.

Just before the group ducked outside the door, Clary caught Jace's eye. He did not look afraid. He looked how he always looked: brave and beautiful and hers. She called out his name, and he mouthed something back as they shoved him out of the room.

"It'll be all right, Clary," Jonathan said.

But Clary knew it wouldn't. It would never be all right again. She could feel it, deep in her bones. Her father would finally get his revenge on Michael Wayland. He would finally soil the Wayland name, but he would do it at Jace's expense. At hers.

Feeling every ounce of strength go out of her, Clary slumped against her brother, a sob working its way out of her mouth. She buried her face in his neck as her body went limp, and she let him carry her away. She closed her eyes and blocked out the sensations around her. She no longer felt the sway of her brother's steps, no longer heard the chatter and beeping coming from the rooms around her, no longer saw anything but the darkness of her own eyelids.

After a few minutes, Clary was aware of her brother turning, and she felt the space around her close in.

"What happened?" came her mother's concerned voice.

"Dad," was all Jonathan said, as he lifted Clary and laid her down on the hard hospital bed. She curled up on herself, hugging her knees and keeping her eyes clenched shut. If she didn't open her eyes this wouldn't be happening, it couldn't be happening.

"Jesus," her mom said, "what did he do now?"

Jonathan sighed, and Clary felt his hand brush the hair away from her cheek. "Outside," he said. Footsteps started toward the door, and then they paused. "Do you need anything, Clare-bear?"

_Yes_, she thought,_ but nothing you can give me._

Clary didn't voice her thoughts; she stayed silent. She could hear her brother breathing, hear the way his fingers scratched against the side of his pants, and she knew it killed him not to be able to help, but there was nothing he could do. There was nothing anyone could do.

After a moment, she heard the click of her door closing, and she was alone, all alone with only her thoughts and fears and regrets. She tried not to think about what had just happened, about how they'd grabbed Jace so roughly away from her, how her father had seemed almost triumphant when they had. Most of all, she tried not to see Jace's face. But she couldn't get it out of her mind. That last glimpse she'd had. The determination in his eyes, the set of his jaw, the words his mouth had formed as he'd disappeared from her view. She could hear them inside her mind, even though they'd had no sound at the time.

_You're worth it._

He thought she was worth it.

He'd always thought she was worth it.

She wanted to believe him, wanted to believe so much that this could work, that they could walk away from this and still be together. But she had doubt, so much doubt and hopelessness that she felt lost in a sea of it. And she couldn't help but wonder: how long would it take Jace to discover that none of this was worth it? How long would it take him for him to realize that fighting for this, for her, had been the biggest mistake of his life?

And even worse: how would she live with herself, with her decision to let him, when he did?

* * *

><p><em>So . . . <em>

_I sincerely hope those of you who have said you could not read on if what has happened, happened change your mind. I hope that you will continue to trust me. I've said from the beginning that this story would not be fluffy and sweet. It was never intended to be. I did promise that neither Jace nor Clary will die, and she will NOT have a miscarriage. But those are the only promises I have made. _

_I posted this quote on twitter and think perhaps I should post it here for you to read and remember:_

"_The couples that are 'meant to be' are the ones who go through everything that is meant to tear them apart and come out even stronger than they were before."_

_I think that fits. Try to remember it._

_And another, tiny thing:_

_I've been getting so many comments about the Statutory Rape charge, people saying Jace can't be charged since he was 17 the night Clary got pregnant (which btw, makes me so happy some of you remembered his birthday was the day after! :D) etc, etc, ect. I'm not sure if y'all realize this or not, but statutory rape laws are different in every state. Age of consent is different, age someone can be prosecuted is different, a lot of things are different. The fact that Jace MAY have been 17 and not 18 at the time IS important, but maybe not in the way you think. A minor can still be charged with statutory rape if the victim is under the age of consent. There are many factors at play, but it can and does happen. It's not as simple as "he was 17". I have researched this so I can be as accurate as possible (considering, of course, that this IS a fictional story and some creative license will be taken)._

_Besides, do we know FOR SURE he was 17? What if the incident happened after midnight? Then he'd be 18, right? ;)_

_All I'm trying to say by this is: don't assume. Don't take anything for granted in this situation, because it could end up good for Jace and Clary, or it could end up very bad. Trust me that whatever the outcome is, that I have a plan. The laws I've used (yes, I've used real statutory rape laws) to base this fic on are already planned out. So please, sit back, relax, read, and trust that I will get you through this. Don't take off running when things get rough or you'll never know how or if things work out in the end._

_Until next time, xoxo ~ddpjclaf_


	21. I Want Everything

****The character names of The Mortal Instruments are owned by Cassandra Clare. The original content, ideas and intellectual property of this story are owned by ddpjclaf, 2011. Please do not copy, reproduce, or translate without express written permission.****

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Twenty-One - "I Want Everything"<strong>

_***CHAPTER WARNING: Some of you may have the strong urge to throw your phone or computer out the window or into a wall. Please do not do this until at least reading to the end. ;) Also, some may need tissues . . . ***_

_As always, thanks to LLWB for rushing the edits for me. I ***heart*** you, girl!_

_Chapter songs:_

_**Through Glass – Stone Sour_

_**That I Would Be Good – Alanis Morissette_

_**So Far Away - Staind _

_**Somebody That I Used To Know - Gotye_

_**Never Saw Blue Like That – Shawn Colvin_

* * *

><p>The lights were harsh and the bed hard in the small holding cell located in the rear of the police station. As Jace had been escorted back there, he'd counted five cells total—all of which served as a temporary containment for drunks, druggies, people who were put there while police conducted some of their "investigation" to determine whether or not the charges against them stood, or if their dads refused to come bail them out.<p>

Jace happened to be both of the latter. The phone call to his father had been enlightening, to say the least.

"_You went there?" his father had asked, his voice laced with incredulousness._

"_I had to," Jace said, his forehead pressed against the cinderblock wall beside the phone. "She's—"_

"_I told you not to cross, Morgenstern, didn't I?" his father interrupted. "But you couldn't just listen to me, could you? You let your dick lead you once and look where it got you. Now you're going to do it again? I told you to sign the damn papers and just be done with all this nonsense."_

_ "That 'nonsense' is my girlfriend," Jace said, pausing and adding quietly, "and my son." The word _son _rolled off his tongue as if it weren't the most frightening word in the world. "I'm not turning my back on them. No matter what."_

_ The line went silent for several seconds, and Jace thought maybe his father had hung up._

_ "Dad?"_

"_You're eighteen-years-old now, Jace. According to the law, you're an adult. If this is the decision you want to make, then I can't stop you." He paused. "But I don't have to support you in it or bail you out of it."_

"_Dad—" _

_And then there was nothing but dial tone._

_ Jace had resisted the urge to slam the handset back onto the cradle._

It wasn't exactly news to Jace that his father was a dick—this was the same man who'd pushed him so hard in practice he'd puked, the man who'd told him over and over again that his efforts were "mediocre at best" when Jace had given him everything he had—but Jace could honestly say he hadn't expected his father to completely turn his back. He knew he'd be angry, yell, call Jace several choice names and berate him for being a damn moron, but he never thought he'd leave him there. Especially when it involved Valentine Morgenstern. He thought his father would fight against Clary's father with everything he had in him, if only _because_ it wasValentine Morgenstern. But there Jace was, cold and alone.

He sat on the edge of the putrid mattress, his head down and hands clasped between his knees. His eyes were closed as he tried to convince himself he wasn't where he was, that he didn't smell the reek of days old vomit and piss, or hear the drunk in the cell next to his moaning and retching into the seat-less, silver toilet beside the cot. When that didn't work, he reminded himself why he'd done this in the first place. For Clary. For his son. For his own sense of self worth. But every minute that passed, Jace felt the cell closing in on him, and he realized with a start that if Morgenstern got what he wanted, this could be his life for the foreseeable future.

In an unsurprising move, Morgenstern had not only filed the statutory rape complaint, as he stated he would, he'd also filed an assault complaint for the scene in the waiting room. He claimed Jace had come to the hospital, started a fight with him, then tried to overpower his daughter (even though it had been Morgenstern who had come at Jace and not the other way around. And the shit about Clary was just, well . . . shit.) Somehow, miraculously, none of the hospital staff had "seen" anything that could contradict Morgenstern's claims, so Jace was taken into custody.

Jace couldn't help but wonder how Morgenstern had managed that. There had to have been a half dozen nurses alone in that room. Why hadn't anyone come forward with the truth? And to add insult to injury, Morgenstern had called in the press to witness Jace being escorted out of the hospital. The flashes from their cameras had nearly blinded him, and more than one microphone had been thrust into his face as hospital security passed him off to the police. It seemed Morgenstern would stop at nothing to flout Jace's transgressions to everyone everywhere.

The scene in the waiting room came back to him: the feel of Morgenstern's hands in Jace's shirt, the sound of Clary's voice as she'd called from him to stop, the look on her face when the guards had torn them apart. Jace clenched his fists, the rage inside him roaring to life once more.

It wasn't Morgenstern's unfounded prejudice against Jace that had him angry—that he could handle—it was his total disregard for his own daughter. It was clear he could care less about what this was doing to her, the scrutiny she would face, the embarrassment. He had no idea what Clary had already been through, how devastating and mortifying every step of this journey had been for her so far. This, above everything else, pissed Jace off so entirely, he wanted nothing more than to live up to those assault charges. What he wouldn't give to knock the shit out of the man just one time.

Biting so hard on his bottom lip he tasted blood, Jace finally opened his eyes and let his gaze rest on the metal bars leading out into the corridor. The lights out there were a dull yellow, making the tiled floor look like it hadn't been cleaned in years. He could see the edge of the large door that opened to the police station. In his mind he knew this was only a temporary holding cell, that he would be out in a matter of hours, regardless of whether or not his father came for him, but he couldn't help feeling anxious about what was happening on the outside. Not for himself but for Clary. What was happening with her? Was she okay? What was her father saying or doing to her?

Jace didn't trust the asshole. He'd shown he had absolutely no concern for her. She was just a means to an end for him. How could her father look at her and only see that? How could he not see how amazing and caring and . . . perfect she was? How could he treat her as if she were merely a possession, something he could toss away, sacrifice, at a moment's notice?

God, he needed to get out of there. Regardless of the charges he was accused of, she needed him as much as he needed her. Yes, she was strong—stronger than him if he was being honest—but he knew he was stronger with her, and maybe, just maybe, she was stronger with him too.

Another loud retch came from the cell beside him. Jace was about to yell to the guy to man the hell up and quit puking like a baby, when he heard the squeal of the door to the cell block open, and footsteps make their way down the tiled hall. He sat up straighter, his eyes following the progression of the shadow until it turned into a man. The officer stopped outside Jace's cell, his gaze down and a ring of keys in his hand.

Jace's heart skipped in his chest.

The officer flipped through the ring until he found the key he wanted, shoved it in the lock, and turned until a resounding click echoed throughout the corridor. The door to the cell swung open wide, but Jace didn't move, too surprised to respond.

"Come on, kid," the officer said. "You've been sprung."

Jace blinked several times, his mind trying to comprehend what he'd heard. It was impossible. His father had said—

"You just gonna sit there all day or do you wanna get out of here?"

Jace stood, walking toward the door and holding out his hands so they could be recuffed.

The officer shook his head. "Nah. You're on your way out. No need for cuffs."

Jace dropped his hands and stepped into the hall, walking a foot or so in front of the officer. "But, I don't understand. My father said—"

"Look, kid," the officer said. "Haven't you ever heard the phrase 'don't look a gift horse in the mouth'?"

"Yeah." Jace looked back at the man as he used his enormous key ring to unlock the door leading to the station. "But I just—"

The door swung open and the officer gestured him out. "Well, then, don't."

Jace turned back toward the opening, his eyes searching for the familiar dark hair and scowl of his father, but landing on something completely different. Some_one_ completely different.

"Wh—what are you doing here?" Jace said, stopping just in front of the door to the cells.

The figure stood from the chair in the waiting area, dark eyes rising slowly to meet Jace's. Jonathan Morgenstern took several steps toward Jace and stopped a few feet before him. His gaze never wavered as he stuck his hands in his pockets. "I just bailed your ass out, the least you could do is thank me."

"Thank you," Jace said, his jaw tense. "Now, why else are you here?"

Now Jonathan's eyes left Jace's face and he stared at the wall. "I don't like you," he said. "That's never been a secret." He glanced back at Jace. "And I think after what I learned about you and Clary, I might actually physically hate you." Jonathan swallowed, his throat bobbing visibly. "But what you did tonight . . . What you did for my sister . . ." He fidgeted, one of his hands leaving his pocket and rising to rub his jaw.

Jace stared at Jonathan, not believing he was hearing this from him.

"You stood up to my dad," Jonathan continued. "Even when he threatened you with all this." He waved his hand around at the police station. "Who would do that? Who would risk everything: their freedom, their reputation, their life, unless they . . . unless they really loved the person they were doing it for?" He swallowed again. "You really do love her, don't you? You really meant what you said?"

Jace didn't speak, couldn't speak, so he just nodded instead.

Jonathan nodded in return. "Then that's why I'm here. If you love her enough to do this, to take all the crap my father is throwing at you, then I can at least love her enough to help you out."

Jace relaxed a little. "So you're not here to beat the shit out of me then?"

Jonathan's mouth twitched, and Jace could have sworn he saw a bit of amusement flash through his eyes.

"Well, the night is still young." Jonathan swept his hand to the door. "I'm not making any promises."

.o.O.o.

"Are either of you planning to stay the night?" the nurse asked as she, yet again, hung a new IV bag and checked the flow. "If so, we can bring a cot."

Clary looked over at her parents, and just as her mother opened her mouth to speak, her father answered for the both of them. "I'll be staying. The security in this place is severely lacking and I'd like to make sure Clarissa is safe."

_Safe?_ As if she were in some sort of real danger? Please. But the nurse didn't say anything about Clary's father's insinuation. She just nodded her head and exited the room.

"Besides," her father continued, peeking up at Clary for a second before immersing himself in the book in his lap once more, "I want to make sure you're out first thing in the morning, so we don't miss our appointment."

"Appointment?" Clary asked. "What appointment?"

"Valentine," her mother said, shaking her head slightly. "There's plenty of time for this. Shouldn't we at least discuss—"

"There's nothing to discuss, Jocelyn. The agency has agreed to see us on short notice and I'm not going to overlook their generosity."

"What are you talking about?" Clary asked again, her heart thumping faster in her chest. "What agency?"

Her parents continued to ignore her, sustaining their argument as if she weren't even in the room.

"What agency?" Clary asked again, louder, and with a hint of panic in her voice.

Her parents grew quiet and her father sighed. "The adoption agency, Clarissa."

"Wait. What? But I didn't—"

"Valentine, surely we can wait a little while for this. I mean, we just found out, emotions are high, can't we just—"

"This isn't open for discussion, Jocelyn. I've made my decision and it's final."

"But you can't!" Clary said, her voice high and squeaky. "You can't. This is my—"

"Your what?" Her father turned his hard gaze on her. "Your child? Your decision? In theory, yes, but you're _my_ child. It's my responsibility to do things and make decisions for you when you're incapable of making responsible choices—which you have proven you're not able to do. You are sixteen-years-old, still in school, how do you expect to support and care for a child? Drop out of school? Marry _that boy_? There's no way in hell. That is not an option. This is the only way."

"But—"

"Valentine!" her mother said. "Please—"

Clary's father held his hand up. "We're not discussing this any further. This is the best thing for everyone involved. The faster we get this taken care of, the faster this will all be over." And with those words, the sound of a phone ringing blared. Clary's father paused and fished through his pocket, pulling out the small, black object and held it to his ear. "Morgenstern," he said. "Really? Already?" He stood and started to pace at the end of Clary's bed. "That didn't take long, did it?" Her father rubbed at his jaw. "No, that's fine. I never expected him to stay there. No way Wayland would allow that."

_Stay where? Wayland wouldn't allow what?_ Clary wondered. What was her father talking about? She knew whatever it was had to do with Jace, but what that was she had no idea.

"At least he got a taste of what it will be like when we're done with him," her father said. "No, that's all right. I'll deal with the next phase. Thank you." And then he snapped the phone shut, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

"What's going on?" Clary asked, knowing by the tight feeling in her chest that she wouldn't like the answer. "What happened? What are you going to do?"

Her father ignored Clary's questions and spun toward the door. "I've got a few more calls to make then I'll be back."

"Valentine," her mother said, flicking Clary an apologetic look as she chased Clary's father out the door.

As it clicked shut, Clary was overcome by the suffocating isolation she felt. The beep of her heart monitor still raced away, and the IV line at her side dripped in measured drops. She felt as if everything had come to a standstill. Time was not moving. People were not coming and going. She was alone. The voices of the doctors and nurses outside her door were a constant buzz, though nothing was clear enough for her to hear. But it was just as well. She didn't have space in her brain to hear them anyway.

What was happening with Jace? What did her father mean _the next phase_? What had he done already? Questions and fears swirled around in her mind, but there were no answers to be found. And then her thoughts shifted to what her father had said before the phone call.

An adoption agency.

Her father expected her to go to an adoption agency the next morning. Could he do that? Was that really his right as her parent? She had no idea. In the course of this whole thing, she'd let her mind wander to the possibility of giving the baby up, but she'd been nowhere near making a decision. She hadn't even thought to research any of this because she hadn't let herself really consider any of her options.

Why hadn't she?

If she were being honest, she didn't have to ask herself that question at all. She knew why. She hadn't researched anything because she'd been too busy living in denial over the whole thing.

Clary rolled onto her back, one hand pushed up into her hair and the other lingering at the edge of the swell in her stomach. Her gaze focused on the dark light above her head. Even now, in the hospital, with almost everyone important in her life knowing the situation, none of this felt real. She was still in this perpetual state of denial. Sure, she knew, logically, what was happening, but there was still this part of her that had convinced herself that if she just closed her eyes, if she refused to believe this was really her life, she would wake up and it wouldn't be. She wouldn't be sixteen and pregnant. She wouldn't be the epicenter of her family's demise. She wouldn't be the reason the boy she loved was facing jail and the lifetime stigma of being called a rapist.

Oh, God, Jace. What had her father _done_ to him? The question repeated itself again and again in her mind. No one would tell her anything about him, about where he'd gone. Not even Jonathan. Before leaving he'd simply stated, again, "It'll be all right. Okay, Clare-bear? It'll be all right."

But it wouldn't, would it? Her father would make sure of that.

Lowering her hand to her face, she covered her eyes, feeling the tight, salt-covered skin around her now-dry eyes. She'd promised Jace she would fight for him, but how did she do that? Where did she start when she didn't even know for sure what was happening? It wasn't like anything she could say would change what had happened between them. It wouldn't change that the first time they'd had sex had been when she was fifteen. It wouldn't change the things her father had set in motion. If only the party had been a few weeks later. If only their fathers didn't have this stupid, unexplained rivalry. If only, if only, if only . . . But none of the "if onlys" in the world mattered. All they did was serve as a reminder of all the ways she had screwed up.

Clary moved her hand away from her face and looked over to the table next to her bed. She picked up her watch and glanced at the time, quarter after eight. She sighed and dropped it back to the table, her eyes falling to the small black and white picture beside it. Her chest tightened and she let her fingers run over the smooth surface for a moment before picking it up.

It was small and the paper flimsy, but the image printed onto it was larger than anything else in Clary's life. Her hands trembled as she brought the picture up to her face. When she'd first seen the image on the screen, she hadn't been able to make much out of the black, white, and gray blobs. They were shapeless, formless masses that didn't mean or look like much at all. But then the technician had stopped moving the wand, and suddenly the blobs on the screen didn't look like blobs anymore. A tiny, human profile appeared out of the gray. A profile Clary knew in the most innate way. She'd recognized the tiny, upturned nose as her own, and the pouty mouth with the top lip sticking out just a little further than the bottom as identical to the ones she knew better than her own.

And in that moment, something inside of her had changed, or maybe even died. Whether it was a part of her stubborn pride, her fear, or something else entirely, she wasn't sure. All she knew was that this tiny person, this miniature being was hers.

_Hers. _

Nothing had ever been truly hers before.

Even now as her eyes took in the profile, memorized the curve of his little forehead, the spaces she knew were his eyes, the blur of his hand at his chin, she could still feel that sense of . . . _mine. _

_Ours. _Hers and Jace's.

All of her father's attempts to punish them for what they'd done, for whatever had happened before either of them were even born, to try his best to rid himself of this "problem," could never take that away. This little boy would always be theirs.

That night four months earlier, when neither of them had been aware of what they were doing, when neither of them intended to, they'd made him. Together they'd made this new person. That thought used to make Clary feel nothing but fear, but now—even though the fear was still there—it also made Clary feel a sense of purpose, of responsibility.

She could still hear Jace's words in her mind.

_I will fight for you._

_I know you're worth it. Our son is worth it._

And he was right; he was so right.

Clary's throat tightened and her eyes stung at the realization that in all the times she thought she was being strong, that she was being smart, she had really just been being weak. She'd been protecting herself above everyone else. This whole day—other than maybe when she'd stood up to her father—she'd let her fears and weakness overcome her. She'd let herself dwell and cry and feel the hopelessness of the situation overwhelm her.

Drawing in a breath, Clary shook her head and closed her eyes, letting the hand at her side travel up and lay lightly over the bump in her stomach. Her fingers swiped over the swell, just as Jace's usually did, and she could feel the tightness of her skin, the hardness underneath.

_Our son is worth it._

Jace was worth it too.

And it was with these realizations that she thought maybe she _could_ fight. Not just for herself, not just for Jace, but for this little person who had no one else but them to fight for him.

Jace was doing it. He was fighting. He'd always been fighting. And if there was anything Clary could take from all of this it was that Jace would continue to fight. She didn't have to sit there and do as her father said. She didn't have to meet with any agency tomorrow if she didn't want to. She didn't have to do anything he told her to do with _her_ child. This was her decision, and she'd be damned if she let her father take that away from her.

A swell of indignation crashed over her. She would not let him win. She would not let him control this. All her life he'd been in charge, his will had been done, and she had endured it because he was her father. As much of an ass as he was, and as much as she had rebelled against his stupid rules, she had all along harbored an appropriate amount of fear and respect for his role in her life.

But not anymore.

The way he was acting now, the way he'd treated her and Jace, was no longer deserving of anything. It wasn't just about her anymore, and with all her father's plans to "get rid of" her child, Clary could no longer let him call the shots. He may be her father, but _she_ was her son's _mother._

The heart monitor sped with her increased pulse, and she threw the covers back and jumped out of bed. She ambled over to her clothes and pulled her pants on under her gown. Searching the pockets for her phone, she cursed when she found them empty. Great, her father must have taken it. Clary thrust her hands into her hair and spun around, thinking . . . And then she saw the hospital phone beside her bed.

Grabbing her shirt and bag, she rushed over to it, read the instructions taped to the table next to it, which told her to press nine to get an outside line, and picked up the handset. She dialed the first person she could think of and he answered after three rings.

"Hello?"

Clary closed her eyes and supported herself against the table at the sound of his voice. "Simon?"

"Clary?"

"I—" Her voice caught. She cleared her throat. "Can you borrow your Mom's car?"

"Um, yeah, why?"

Clary could hear the television playing in the background, the sounds of bombs and guns firing told her he was probably in the midst of some video game. "Could you come pick me up?"

There was silence for a few moments. "Sure. When do you need me?"

"Now, Simon. Now," she said. "Meet me at the corner of Main and Bristol in ten minutes, okay?"

"Sure," he said, then paused. "Clary . . . are you okay?"

She drew in a shaky breath and exhaled slowly. "No. But I will be. Hurry, Simon." She placed the phone back on the cradle, staring down at the gown and the various monitors attached to her. She withdrew her finger from the pulse/ox monitor, and the beeps turned into one long sound as the green line indicating each beat of her heart went flat. She knew she had only a short amount of time before one of the nurses came to check what was going on, since they would only consider it a non-issue as long as she was only unattached long enough to use the bathroom. The trickier problem was the IV. She studied the place where it was attached to her and saw only one solution. Gritting her teeth, she peeled the tape from her skin and yanked the needle from her arm, blood spurting from the wound.

"Crap," she said, as she grabbed a towel from the table next to her bed. She'd seen one of the nurses rooting around in the top drawer for supplies, so she pulled it open, spying what she needed immediately.

Though it was hard to dress her own wound while trying to staunch the bleeding at the same time, she managed to secure a half-ways decent bandage out of gauze pads and tape. Once she finished, she ripped the hospital gown over her head, replaced her bra and shirt, and pulled her jacket out of her bag. Grabbing her backpack, she spun toward the back of the room.

Just outside her window, she could see the sway of shadowy branches outside. The best thing would have been to just walk out her hospital room and leave, but she knew the nurses would try to stop her. Technically, they couldn't force her to stay, but her father was still there somewhere in the hospital, and if he found out she was trying to leave, he'd probably use his influence to have them strap her to the bed. Not that she knew whether or not they could actually do that if she wasn't insane, but still.

There was no other choice.

Lumbering forward, she saw that even though she was on the bottom floor, the ground below was still a good five-foot drop. She chewed on her lip, wondering if this was the stupidest thing she'd ever done, but willing to do it all the same. She pushed aside the blinds and unlatched the window, sliding it up and out of the way. A blast of cold air hit her and she shivered from head to toe. Ignoring the gooseflesh covering her body, she reached out and pulled the chair her mother had been using and scrambled on top. She fiddled with the latches holding the screen in and finally pushed it out, watching as it tumbled to the ground.

Voices sounded from outside her door and Clary knew she was out of time. She climbed up onto the ledge, threw her backpack out the window, and paused, saying a small prayer to whomever was up there listening, and swung her legs over the side. She lowered herself over the edge, her toes scraping along the brick side, and just when she heard the door to her room creak open, she let herself fall.

.o.O.o.

Uncomfortable didn't even begin to describe how it felt to be stuck in a car with Jonathan Morgenstern. Tension filled the air, crackling and sparking like electricity before a storm and raising the hairs on Jace's arms. His fingers drummed against his denim-covered thigh, trying his hardest not to stiffen or give any other indication of his unease.

Jonathan seemed fine, his hands staying on the wheel and his eyes on the road, but Jace couldn't seem to shake the feeling that that could change at any moment. He didn't trust Jonathan Morgenstern for shit. There was too much history, too many years that had passed in hatred and rivalry for one act to change the feelings between them. They were taught to feel this way, conditioned, and for nothing more than to win a few stupid football games. Then there was the added fact that Jace had had sex with and knocked up Jonathan's younger sister. Yeah, that shit was not just forgiven or forgotten. Jace was pretty sure Jonathan was itching to bust Jace's face open. If he were in the opposite situation, he was pretty sure he already would have.

Jace kept that thought to the forefront of his mind and stayed alert, ready and waiting for the moment when Jonathan lost it completely.

Traffic and streetlights blurred past as Jonathan drove up the highway toward the north side of town. Jace's hand clenched into a fist the closer they came to where he lived, thoughts of seeing his father causing his anger to swell and crest.

Jonathan must have noticed Jace's tenseness because he turned toward him, then back to the road before asking, "Do you want to be dropped someplace other than home?"

"Why would I want that?" Jace asked.

"Well, by the way your leg is threatening to bust through my floorboards, I just thought I'd ask."

Jace glanced down and, sure enough, his leg was bouncing relentlessly. With some effort, he willed the movement to stop. "Home is fine."

Jonathan mumbled something under his breath and let out a condescending chuckle.

"What?" Jace asked, his tone laced with annoyance and warning. "What's so damn funny?"

Jonathan shook his head, pushed up the lever for his turn signal and took a right turn. "You. You're just . . . so damn stubborn and hostile, like you think I'm about ready to drive you to the woods and off you."

"Like you wouldn't think the same thing if you were me?" Jace glanced at Jonathan from the corner of his eye. "Besides, it's not like you haven't tried to take me out before."

Jonathan's mouth opened as if he were going to try to deny it. Jace turned his full stare on him, and Jonathan's mouth snapped shut, his jaw tightening. He shook his head. "I had a feeling she'd heard that night." He let out a breath. "She was acting so strange in the kitchen . . ."

Jace had no idea what Jonathan was talking about, but he really didn't care. "Whatever."

"Look," Jonathan offered, "I know that was a dick thing to do, a lot of the stuff we've done in the past were dick things to do, but that was then and this is now. Now we have Clary to think about."

"I have been thinking about her. This whole time."

"Sure," Jonathan muttered.

Jace drew in a breath and held it, feeling his anger boiling up to the surface once more. "You don't know shit about what I've been thinking about or not thinking about, Morgenstern!" he said. "You know what? Just forget it and pull over."

"What? Don't be stupid, we're almost there—"

"Pull over!" Jace said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Jonathan did as Jace had demanded, and once the car came to a stop, Jace shoved the door open and jumped out, slamming it shut behind him. He started down the street, his breath coming in angry white puffs as he moved away. The slam of another car door sounded behind him but Jace didn't turn to look. He couldn't. He needed to distance himself before he said or did something stupid.

"What the hell, Wayland?" Jonathan called. "Just get back in the damn car already."

Jace kept walking, the muscles in his back tightening and his hands clenching at his side.

"Wayland!"

Jace stopped and spun around. "Look, can we just stop with all this 'truce' bullshit or whatever the hell this is? It's been a long messed up night and I just don't want to deal with this shit right now, okay?" He lifted his hands then let them fall to his sides. "I appreciate the bail out and the ride, I really do, but I can't sit in that damn car and pretend we aren't who we are. I can't pretend I haven't kicked your ass at every football game I've ever played against you. I can't pretend you didn't try to physically take me out of this year's season. And I can't pretend you don't hate the fact that I've been with your sister. So let's just call it a night, okay? You've done your good deed. Clary will thank you profusely. But if you don't mind, I'm just going to say goodnight right here and now." Jace started away again.

"When are you going to get your head out of your ass and realize this isn't about you?" Jonathan called.

Jace froze and half-turned. "I never said it was."

Jonathan snorted. "Could have fooled me."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"You." Jonathan waved his hand toward Jace. "You and your 'poor me, nobody understands and nobody will help me' shit."

Jace turned fully and stared at Clary's brother.

"You may be in deep shit right now, but it's your own damn fault. My father gave you a way out, gave you both a way out, but both of you were too stubborn and stupid to take it. What are you trying to gain anyway? Are you trying to hurt her worse?"

"I'm not trying to hurt her at all."

"Then why the hell do this?" Jonathan held his arms out. "Did you think getting yourself locked up and turned in for rape was going to magically help her?"

"I didn't—"

"No, you God-damn didn't!" Jonathan's face contorted into an angry scowl. "What did you think would happen, Jace? Did you think you 'martyring' yourself was going to make it all better? That it was going to somehow fix things for her? That it would make you look better after what you did?"

"That's not why I did it at all! I don't give a shit how I look." Jace's hands started to tremble and his jaw clenched. "You don't know what the hell you're talking about!"

"Don't I? Then why don't you enlighten me? Tell me why I watched my sister crumble in my arms. Tell me why I had to carry her limp body back to her room. Tell me why she couldn't respond to a word any of us said because she was crying so hard. Tell me, was that what you were going for? Was that what you wanted?"

Jace let out a frustrated breath and thrust a hand into his hair. "No. None of this shit was what I wanted." He looked back at Jonathan. "Don't you think I wish I could change this? That I could take this all away for her? You can think what you want about me, but I've never wanted to hurt her. I've tried so damn hard not to hurt her worse than I already have. But I can't turn my back. Maybe you could if it were you. But I can't. I owe her this."

"You owe her more heartache?" Jonathan asked, his tone disbelieving.

Jace shook his head. "I owe her my loyalty. I owe her the peace of mind that I'm not going to walk away." He met Jonathan's gaze. "You know that's her biggest fear. That everyone will leave her, don't you? She already feels like everyone has. I'm not going to be another notch added to her 'people who leave me' post."

This time Jonathan looked away, and Jace could see the guilt settling on his shoulders. He could tell Jonathan knew this about Clary, knew that she saw him as one of those people who had left her.

"I'm responsible," Jace continued, his voice low but strong. "I'm responsible for all of this, and I'm not going to let her take it all on her own. I was there that night. That kid is mine. I deserve just as much flack, just as many of the stares and pointed fingers and whispers behind my back." He swallowed. "Maybe you don't understand, and maybe you _would_ do things differently, but I love her." Jonathan's eyes flitted back to Jace's. "And this is how I show her."

Jonathan let out a long, slow breath. "You are such a stubborn asshole."

Jace shrugged and went to turn back around, when Jonathan spoke again.

"You're right, you know."

Jace stopped and peeked over his shoulder.

"About me, about everything," Jonathan said. "I _would _do things differently. I would have signed that paper and walked away." He paused. "I'd like to say it's because I think you're an utter moron and I would never be that stupid, but the truth is, I'm just not that strong." He lifted his shoulders, then let them fall. "I would never be able to risk my life for anyone."

Jace studied Jonathan's face for a moment. "Yeah you would."

"No, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't."

"What do you think you're doing right now?"

Jonathan frowned.

"You just bailed me out of jail—the guy your dad put there for sleeping with your underage sister. He's going to kill your stupid ass."

Jonathan barked out a laugh, and Jace couldn't help but grin in return.

"True, true," Jonathan said, turning toward his car and waving Jace back. "Come on, asshole, my sister would never forgive me if I rescued you just to let you freeze to death."

Jace glanced to the empty road in from of him, then back to where Jonathan waited next to his car. With a sigh, he turned and walked back, sliding into the passenger seat without a word. Jonathan followed, slipping into the driver's seat with a smug grin on his face.

Jace crossed his arms over his chest and peered out the side window. God, could this night get any more damn weird?

…

When Jonathan pulled up to Jace's house ten minutes later, there was only one light shining—the one in his father's office. He climbed out of the car, murmuring a low "thanks" and stood there staring up at the window as Jonathan drove away. Anger and resentment lodged in his throat as he considered what he was going to say, what he was going to do. His feet felt like lead weights as he made his way up the stairs to the house, the snow and ice below them crunching with each step.

Once inside, he was struck by the silence. There was no television going, no noise in the kitchen, none of his father's murmured business calls echoing through the halls. It was just dead quiet.

Slowly Jace climbed the stairs, every muscle in his body aching from how tight and anxious he'd been all night. His hand gripped the wood banister as he continued to the second floor. When he reached the top, his eyes fell on the pile of luggage outside his father's bedroom door. He froze, his brows pulling together as he tried to understand what he was seeing.

Moving forward a few more steps, he stopped just in front of the pile. Across the hall, the light from his father's office shined out into the hall. Jace's eyes followed it, his gaze landing on the shelves of trophies and awards lining the wall. Without telling them to, his feet pulled him closer to the room, stopping only when he stood just inside. His father wasn't there, but Jace couldn't seem to make himself leave that spot.

There, displayed for anyone to see, were all his sports accomplishments. Every shiny trophy, every medal, every certificate of excellence, but there was something missing. Jace let his eyes fall over every other part of the room, across the desk that held his father's business necessities, computer, photos of him accepting coaching awards and some with important associates, one of Jace's mother, but nowhere—not on his desk, not on the filing cabinet on the other side of the room, not on the wall—was there a single photo of Jace. Not one.

And as Jace stood there, he realized there were no photos of him anywhere else in the entire house. A sharp pang shot through him at the awareness. He'd never really thought much about it before because the other parts of the house were more like a museum anyway, but here . . . this place was special. It was his father's favorite room, the place he kept all of his prized possessions. And Jace—the parts of him that weren't football—was nowhere to be found in it.

There was a light shuffle from the hallway, and the hairs on the back of Jace's neck stood on end. He closed his eyes and took in a breath, knowing his father was behind him.

"So, you found someone to get you out, I see."

Jace opened his eyes but didn't answer right away. He lowered his gaze to his feet, feeling the heat of anger pool in his chest and shoot outward toward his limbs. "Where are you going, Dad?"

"Emergency business trip to Miami. I'll be gone a little over a week."

"Now?" Jace asked, trying his hardest to keep the trembling out of his voice. He raised his head and let his eyes focus on the awards once more.

"Of course now. I said it was an emergency."

A shiver raced up and down Jace's spine as his hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. He wanted to scream at his father, to ask him why he was such an insensitive bastard, why he had to go now when Jace needed him most, but what came out was, "When exactly was it that you stopped?"

His father huffed. "What are you talking about? Stopped what?"

Jace turned finally, spying his father standing just inside the door, one hand on the frame, his face impassive.

"When did you stop seeing me as your son?" His father's brows rose, but Jace continued as if he hadn't reacted at all. "I mean, look at this room." His hand swept toward the office. "You keep everything you love in here: pictures of places you've been, people you call your friends, awards you've received, Mom . . ." He let his gaze linger on his mother's picture, and then on the trophies a bit longer. "But nothing of me—other than superficial shit I've won." He walked over to the shelves and picked up one of his largest trophies, the full-sized brass-colored football on top gleaming as if it had recently been polished. His eyes lifted to his father's. "When did I stop being the little boy you took to games and showed how to throw a ball? When did I stop being him and become only these?" He held the trophy up. "Was it before or after she died? Was it something I did that made you stop? Please tell me, Dad, because I have no God-damn clue why you hate me so much."

His father looked uneasily between Jace and the trophy in his hand. After a moment, he wiped his face clean of emotion, straightened his stance, and came into the room. "Don't be melodramatic." He reached out for the trophy, his eyes a dark pool of anxiety. "Just put it back now."

Jace followed his father's gaze to the award, saw the desperation in his eyes, and felt a hot stab of rage in his heart. Just before his father's fingers closed around the base, Jace pulled the trophy back out of his reach. "Tell me when, Dad."

"Jace, this is utterly ridiculous. You're acting like a petulant child." He reached for the trophy again. "Now just give me—"

"Tell me when!" Jace drew back his arm and threw the award across the room, the top smashing against the wall and shattering into a million tiny pieces.

"Jesus, Jace! What the hell are you doing?" His father cried out and went to go to the devastated remains, when Jace grabbed his arm.

"No," Jace said, "don't look at that. Look at me. Look at _me_."

He begged him with his eyes to please just God-damn _see_.

His father stared dark and hard, and Jace could feel the coldness of it seep into his bones. He lifted his hand and placed it over Jace's, tightening his grip and squeezing until Jace had no choice but to release him. "You've always been such a spoiled rotten, entitled little brat," his father said, his voice biting.

"Wh—what?" Jace said.

"I always told your mother you were ungrateful. You've been given everything. _Everything._ And you've never appreciated any of it. Do you know how much your mother and I sacrificed for you? And for what?" His father gestured angrily at the splinters covering the floor in front of him. "For you to throw it all away, because you couldn't keep your damn pants on?" He shook his head in disgust. "I should never have promised her." And then his father turned away, kneeling down on the ground in front of the destroyed trophy.

"Promised who what?" Jace's chest heaved with every, disbelieving breath.

"Your mother. I never should have promised her I wouldn't send you." His father continued, his words like venom spitting past his lips. "I told Celine we should have enrolled you in military school to toughen you up a bit, get you away from her and make you behave like a man, but she refused. She liked you soft, liked you weak. She made me promise I never would, no matter what. I should have listened to my gut then. If I had maybe we wouldn't be in this mess now. Maybe I wouldn't feel so disappointed every damn time I look at you."

Jace's eyes stung, and he felt the urge to put his fist through a wall. "You wanted to send me away? I don't—"

"It's too late now." His father shook his head, ignoring Jace and trying in earnest to gather the pieces of the award. "I thought football would beat it out of you, would make you strong, but you're still the soft little boy you always were. You're still making decisions with your 'heart' and not your head. Stupid, reckless decisions."

Unable to contain the fury racing through him, Jace reached out and grabbed the back of his father's office chair and swung it around, heaving it as hard as he could into the shelves on the back wall. It hit with a loud smack, crashing through all three shelves, the wood splintering and sending every trophy, medal, and framed certificate that sat upon them cascading to the ground. The room was a cacophony of glass breaking, metal clanging, and his father's shouts. But for those few seconds as chaos showered down around him in the form of slivered glass and twisted metal, Jace had broken the chains that had been holding him down. And the weight that had crushed his chest for as long as he could remember was gone.

"Christ! What the hell is wrong with you?" his father cried.

But Jace didn't answer; he just ripped the remaining framed certificates and awards from the wall and crushed them below his heel.

"I'm weak?" Jace said, with another stomp. "I'm useless and reckless? I've done everything you've asked! Taken every shitty insult and every crushing training session just with the idiotic hope that you would look at me with at least a little bit of pride, and what did you do?" He swept his arm along the last remaining shelf, everything falling to the floor with the rest. "You _stole_ every moment from me, literally ripped it from my hands, and placed it on your shelf, then told me I wasn't allowed to set foot in here. You took my accomplishments, my hard work, and told me it was 'subpar', weak, not worthy of any praise. And still I tried _harder._ But it was never enough for you, it never could have been enough. You destroyed me little by little, and all because, why?" He looked up and met his father's furious stare. "Why? To make me 'strong' like you? If you're strong and . . . and . . . whatever the hell you think it takes to be a man, then you can keep your God-damn pride and bullshit, because I don't want to be like you. I don't want to be so unfeeling and cold-hearted that my son has to nearly kill himself to get any sort of affirmation from me. You're nothing but a cruel, bullying coward. And, honestly, I feel sorry for you."

Jace's father looked as if he were going to explode. "How dare you speak to me that way? I'm still your fa—"

"Don't," Jace said. "Don't call yourself my father. You're not my father. You may have signed on the dotted line and tacked your name to mine, but you've never been my father."

Jace didn't wait to hear a response; he didn't care. He turned away and exited out into the hall. For so long he'd denied the nagging feeling that those trophies and the notoriety that came with them were all that mattered to Michael Wayland. He'd let himself believe that what Michael was doing, the way he was pushing Jace, was just the way he showed he loved him, was just the way he tried to make Jace the best he could be.

But now he knew different.

Now he knew it wasn't about him at all. It never had been.

Curses and shouts followed Jace down the stairs and through the foyer, all the way to the front door. Once it shut behind him, the silence of night fell over him and the chains he'd momentarily lost when he'd thrown that chair into a lifetime of forced accomplishment, wrapped back around him, tighter and heavier than before. His mind filled with the things the man who had raised him had shouted, the way his eyes had stared into Jace with not an ounce of feeling or remorse.

_. . . spoiled rotten, entitled little brat . . ._

Jace climbed in his car, his hands shaking so hard he dropped the keys three times before finally getting them into the ignition.

_. . . you're still the soft little boy you always were . . ._

The engine roared to life, but the sound did nothing to drown out the words. Over and over and over they echoed in his mind, telling him again and again just how little the man he'd called his father thought of him. Jace rested his forehead against the steering wheel momentarily, trying to get a grip on his own thoughts, trying to tell himself they weren't true. But they would not leave, would not give him even an iota of distance from all his accused faults and failures.

_. . . stupid, reckless . . ._

He drove up to the gate, his heart hammering painfully against his ribs and his breath catching in his throat. His vision blurred and he blinked it back, trying several times to enter the code to get the gate to open. When it finally did, he peeled out of the driveway, his tires squealing against the blacktop. He had no clue as to where he was going or why. All he knew was he needed to get out of there. Now. Right now.

Jace wanted to drive until he could drive no more, to dull his head and heart with blurring scenery and the hum of the motor beneath him. He wanted to run or throw or hit or scream—anything to leave behind the pain and ruin of his life, the relentless ache that pulsed and bled inside of him. But he knew deep in his heart, where the poison of his father's words festered and spread like cancer, that no matter how fast or how far he went, he never, ever could.

.o.O.o.

"Wow," Simon said, his eyes staring straight ahead, his hands clutching the steering wheel so hard his knuckles had long ago turned white. "Wow."

Clary swallowed and looked down at her lap, her cheeks burning with her admission. "I know I should have told you earlier, but I . . . I didn't tell _anyone_, Simon. Not anyone. Well, except for Izzy, but just because she was with me when I found out. And of course Jace . . ." Her words trailed off and she lifted her gaze to see him still staring unseeingly into the night. She watched the light turn, but Simon made no sign to move. "The light's green," she whispered.

It took Simon a few seconds to react, and when he did, the vehicle moved aimlessly forward once more. Silence filled the spaces around them like a third passenger in the car. Clary was more uncomfortable than she'd been in a long time. Things between her and Simon still hadn't been at one hundred percent, but she needed him to respond in some way, any way.

"Are you going to say anything?" Clary asked, her voice quiet and small, her teeth worrying her bottom lip.

Simon let out a breath. "I don't know what to say. I'm . . . I don't even know."

Clary nodded and turned toward the window, watching the scenery go by and the soft flakes that had just started to fall coat everything in a thin layer of white. Part of her had expected Simon to react this way, with shock and possibly even anger, but a bigger part hoped he wouldn't. What she needed more than anything right now, was someone to be there and tell her it would all be okay, that the decision she'd made was the best one she could have made given the circumstances. But even though she needed it, there was no one who could do that for her.

No one she could get to at the moment, anyway.

Again, fear for Jace washed over her. She wanted him. Needed him. But from the pieces of conversations she'd heard while in the hospital, she figured her father had done exactly what he'd threatened and filed the rape complaint. A shudder worked its way through her body as she considered what that meant for Jace, what it meant for them, what it meant about where he was now. Clary wasn't stupid. Jonathan hadn't had to answer her questions for her to know.

God, she hated her father, hated him so much it had now become a physical, gnawing disease inside of her. And she wanted more than anything to go to Jace, to walk into the police station and plead his case to anyone that would listen. But she knew that would only do more harm than good, so with every ounce of restraint she had, she'd told Simon to stay far away from the west side of town. Although doing so made her feel like her heart was being torn from her chest.

A moment later, Clary felt warmth engulf her hand. Looking down, she saw Simon's covering her own. Her eyes pricked and her throat tightened. It had been so long since he'd touched her like that. She closed her lids and let her fingers entwine with his.

"I'm sorry," Simon said.

"What for?"

"For not being someone you could come to about this . . . about anything, really. I'm so sorry, Clary."

She glanced up and squeezed his hand. "You're here now."

Simon looked over at her and smiled a small, sad smile. "You let me off too easily. I've been a huge jerk."

"You have." Clary nodded. "But so have I." She paused. "So, you don't hate me?"

"Of course not," he said, catching her eye once more. "I was hurt and upset about everything, but you're my best friend. I could never hate you."

"Thank you," she whispered through the lump in her throat.

Simon squeezed her hand this time. "So, where do you want to go? We're kind of running out of city."

"I don't know," she said. "I just don't—"

Her words cut off and it was then she realized they'd ventured into the north side of town, the lights of the parking lot to Northwest Academy shining bright like a beacon in the dark in front of them. And, as if they were black scars through the sea of white, a set of tire tracks cut across the lot, leading to one lonely vehicle at the far end, closest to the field.

A vehicle Clary recognized.

"Pull over," she said, grasping Simon's arm.

"Ow!" he said under her grip. "Pull over? Why?"

"Just do it. Please." Her heart thumped hard in her chest and her stomach flipped. She met Simon's confused gaze. "Please."

He frowned, but pulled into the parking lot regardless, following the tracks and parking next to the empty vehicle. Clary wrestled with her seatbelt, finally getting free, and thrust open the door. She climbed out of the car, her eyes drawn to the dark field sprawling out in front of her. And there, on the usually grassy strip next to the sideline, she found what she was looking for.

The silhouette was shrouded in shadow, but she would have known it anywhere.

Simon climbed out of the car and peered over the top. Clary looked over at him and opened her mouth to speak, but he just shook his head. "Go. I'll catch you later." She hesitated, but Simon held up his hand. "Just go. I know he's who you really need right now."

She tossed him a grateful smile, then turned and started away. She half-walked, half-ran, careful to watch her step so she didn't fall. A few moments later, she stopped on the edge of the field behind where Jace stood, his body poised in a familiar stance. His hands clutched a ball to his chest and his head faced toward the target further down the sideline. She could just make out the curl of his fingers, positioned just right along the laces. It felt like forever since she'd seen him this way, in his element, doing the thing he did so effortlessly, so perfectly, that she could do nothing but watch as he drew back, the muscles of his back, shoulder, and arm moving fluidly beneath his shirt, and threw. The ball arced flawlessly through the air and slid right through the hole in the target, not even touching the sides, and hitting the backstop with a thud.

Clary took a couple of steps toward him as he picked up another ball, set his stance again, and let it go. Another perfect throw. "I forgot how amazing you were at that," she said.

Jace's shoulders stiffened and he whirled around, his face fixed in surprise. "Clary?" he said. "What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same, but . . ."

"I thought you were supposed to stay overnight." His voice tightened. "Is everything okay? Are you okay?"

"I am now," she said quietly, moving forward a little more, watching him do the same. When they were toe to toe, she looked up and met his eyes. She was eager to touch him, for him to touch her, but something in his gaze made her hold back. "I thought you were . . . I thought my father sent you . . ."

"I was," he said. "He did."

Clary closed her eyes against the sting growing inside them. She clenched her fists and her nails dug into her palms. But before she could say anything, Jace's hands surrounded her face.

"Don't," he whispered. "It's okay. I'm okay."

She shivered at the sensation of his skin against hers. "No it's not." Clary opened her eyes. "And no you're not." She touched his face just below his eyes, tracing the lines that had formed there. "I can see it here. You're not okay."

Jace took her hand in his and brought it to his mouth. He pressed his lips to her knuckles, and let out a breath, the heat of it spreading over and warming her fingers. "You're right. But it has nothing to do with that." His eyes met hers. "I made my choice, and I can handle whatever they decide to do to me." His gaze faltered and he grimaced.

"But . . . ?"

He drew in another breath and stepped away from her, pushing a hand into his hair. "Nothing." He shook his head. "It's not important."

Clary stepped into him. "If it makes you look like this," she touched the frowning corners of his mouth, "then it's important to me."

Jace continued to shake his head. "It has nothing to do with any of this, with us. It's just my . . . my father. Really, it's nothing."

Clary frowned. "It seems it's the night for shitty fathers."

Jace coughed out a laugh and lowered his head. "Yeah."

Clary's face softened and she reached for his hand. "Tell me, Jace."

His shoulders rose and fell with his sigh, and he turned away from her, walking several feet away before sitting down on the snow covered bench, his hands clasped between his knees and his head down. Clary followed and sat carefully beside him.

"He's just an asshole, baby."

"What did he do?"

Jace turned his head and glanced up at her, and the pain in his eyes nearly stole her breath. "He just . . . shit . . . he just made it very clear how he felt about me not signing those papers, that's all."

"Which was . . . ?"

He shook his head.

"Please, Jace. Please tell me."

He sighed, long and deep. "He told me he wasn't going to help me at all, that it was stupid and reckless—that I've always made stupid and reckless decisions, because I'm soft and weak. And . . ." Jace drew in a breath and let it out slowly. "And then he let me know just how much he wished he'd had the balls to go against my mother's wishes and send me away when I was younger. To some sort of military school or some shit. Because maybe then I wouldn't have turned out to be such a big disappointment."

Clary stared at Jace for a moment, at the way his eyes turned dark when he spoke, and her blood boiled in her veins. "He said _what_?"

"Yeah, in so many words . . ." Jace looked away. The gesture made Clary's chest squeeze. "I don't know. Maybe he's right. Maybe I am weak. Maybe I—"

"No," Clary said, as she grabbed his chin, pulling his gaze back to hers. "Don't you dare believe him. You are _not_ weak. You are . . . you're . . ."

"It's okay, Clary. You don't have to—" He tried to twist his face from her grasp, but she tightened her grip.

"Stop it. You're not weak," she repeated, her voice coming out quieter. "I don't care what he says. What you did tonight . . . the way you stood up for yourself . . . for me . . . You're so strong. _So strong_. God, don't you know that?"

He closed his eyes. "But he doesn't see me that way. He never has. I've never been able to make him, no matter what I do. No matter how hard I try. It's like . . . I don't know. It's just so exhausting to try and try and try and to have it make no difference."

"Then he's blind." Clary let her fingers loosen and slide up to his cheek, the light stubble scratching against her skin. "Because if he just looked . . . if he could see what I see . . . If he had seen you tonight . . . God, Jace." She drew in a breath before continuing. "I've always known what kind of boy you were. Strong, confident, beautiful. And I've loved you for all those things and more, but tonight . . . tonight I watched that strong, confident, beautiful boy become an even stronger, more confident, more beautiful _man_." She reached up and touched her other hand to his face, holding him tight between her palms. "You were so incredibly brave, and I was so, _so_ proud of you." She let her gaze move from one of his eyes to the other. "And I've never been more thankful that you were the one with me against that door four months ago."

Jace's eyes stayed steady on hers. "Why?"

"Because I know without any doubt that my son has the most amazing father."

Jace let out a choked sound and his eyes grew wide. "Clary . . . "

"The way that you are, the things you say and do . . . you make me feel like . . . like maybe I can be brave like you too," she said, her voice lowering to a whisper. "You make me want to be."

"But you are, baby. You are."

She shook her head. "I'm not. I haven't been. But I'm going to try to be now." She swallowed hard. "I . . . I didn't know before." Her hands dropped from his face and her fingers fumbled at her pocket. "Maybe I didn't want to know before . . ."

Slowly, she pulled the small black and white image from her jeans and pressed it into Jace's hand. She watched as he looked down, his breath catching when he took in the same profile Clary had earlier.

"My father made an appointment with an adoption agency tomorrow, but I don't . . . I . . . I don't . . ."

"What?"

Clary bit back the fear that still threatened to close her throat. She knew the words she wanted to say, knew what she needed to say, but God if they weren't the hardest things to get out. She closed her eyes and blew out a shaky breath. "He deserves to know you, Jace." She opened her eyes once more. "And you deserve to know him." Jace raised his gaze, and Clary could see it was lined with unshed tears. "And I . . . and I want to watch you know him."

"Clary . . . Are you saying . . . Do you . . . ?" The words shook as they crossed his lips. His stare was uncertain, but Clary was sure she detected a sliver of hope as well.

She nodded, feeling her own eyes sting.

Jace reached for her, holding her face cupped in his palms as she'd had his moments before. His hands shook, but his grip was strong. "Are you sure? Really, really, really sure, because I don't think I can take another—"

"I want him, Jace." Clary touched his mouth, tracing over the lips identical to the ones in the photo trapped between her cheek and Jace's hand. "I don't know how to do this or even if I can, but I . . . I want him."

Jace lowered his head and closed his eyes; the tears that had been clinging there fell slowly over his face and onto Clary's fingers. His breath shuddered and his shoulders trembled as he pulled her into him, his arms hugging her so tight she could barely breathe.

"I don't know what's going to happen," he said, his voice strained as he tried to speak through the emotion clouding his throat. "I don't know if I'll have to go away, but I . . . I want him too. And I want you. And I want—" His words cut off, but after a few seconds, he drew in a breath and said, "Everything. God, I want everything."

Clary closed her own eyes and buried her tear-streaked face into the fabric of his shirt. Fear and uncertainty threatened to burst through her ribs, but there was something else there too. Something she hadn't felt in a long, long time.

Peace.

Peace and a glimmer of the hope she'd seen in Jace's eyes.

"Me too," she said, turning until her lips and nose met the skin of his neck. She placed a kiss there and breathed him in, clutching him tighter to her and savoring the feeling of having him and their son cocooned safely inside her arms. "I want everything too."

* * *

><p><em>Please keep in mind that it is summer break, and with 4 kids, concentration and time to write is in short supply. I will update, it just may take a little longer considering.<em>

_Until Next time, XOXO ~ddpjclaf_


	22. Redemption

****The character names of The Mortal Instruments are owned by Cassandra Clare. The original content, ideas and intellectual property of this story are owned by ddpjclaf, 2011. Please do not copy, reproduce, or translate without express written permission.****

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Twenty-Two - "Redemption"<strong>

_***WARNING – for those who appreciate a heads up, there is M rated material below.***_

_~There will be a very slight break from the angst here for a moment—and when I say a moment, I really DO mean a moment. ;) I hope you all enjoy it while it lasts! I think our two lovebirds deserved a second to breathe._

_Thank you, as always to my beta, LLWB. It is because of her that you got this before the weekend. Love you, girl!_

_Enjoy!_

_Chapter songs: _

_**With Me – Sum 41_

_**Letters From the Sky – Civil Twilight_

_**Little Wonders – Rob Thomas_

_**Redemption – The Strange Familiar_

* * *

><p>The air grew considerably colder as Clary stood beside the field at Northwest Academy, holding onto Jace with a grip she was sure had to be tighter than death. Even as her body shook and her fingers went numb, she kept her face buried in his neck, her hands clutching his shirt. There was nowhere else she wanted to be: not inside, not warm, not anywhere. She was safe with him, with her eyes, heart, and mind closed to the rest of the world. But no matter how hard she tried to forget, no matter how tight she fisted the material covering his back, the heavy weight inside her stomach just would not go away.<p>

"We should go," he murmured in her ear, though his arms stayed tight around her, as if he really didn't mean the words at all.

"Not yet," Clary said.

"But you're shaking."

"So are you."

"That's because I'm freezing my ass off out here."

Clary snorted and pulled back from him. When she opened her eyes, her breath caught when she saw that, in the precious moments she and Jace had been lost inside one another, the sky had opened up and an abundance of large, soft flakes were falling down all around them. It wasn't one of those gentle, peaceful snows that reminded Clary of little puffs of cotton meandering through the air, but was more reminiscent of a snow globe being shaken mercilessly by a two-year-old. The world around them was nothing but a mass of white, blocking Clary's sight from anything that wasn't a foot or less in front of her. She didn't know how she could have not noticed, as now she could feel the heavy, wet weight of the accumulation on her hair and body, and the little sting of cold as pieces struck and slid down her cheeks.

Clary tried to blink away the flakes that came at her eyes, but it seemed the more she did, the more her vision blurred. She tilted her head up to Jace and squinted through her wet lashes. His face was somewhat obscured by the veil of frozen water between them, but she could make out that he'd lost some of the pained, worried look from before.

Jace reached up and gently brushed a clump of snow-laden hair away from her face. Clary shivered from the touch of his fingers against her temple.

"Come on," he said. "I should get you home before you freeze."

She wanted to protest, to tell him that in no uncertain terms did she want to go home. But before she had a chance to say anything at all, his hand wrapped around hers, and they were moving quickly through the oblivion. Snow slapped her in the face and bit at her cheeks. She had no idea which direction they were going, or even if it was the right way, but with Jace's hand intertwined tightly with hers, she really didn't care. Whiteness filled the sky and spaces around them, and it almost felt as if they were the only ones left in the entire world. She would have given anything right then if that could be true.

Moments later, Jace's car emerged out of the blizzard, and he opened the door for Clary. She slid into the passenger seat, her teeth chattering uncontrollably, as Jace closed the door behind her. She flexed her fingers to try to get the blood flowing through them again, and Jace climbed in the driver's seat beside her. He immediately shoved his keys into the ignition, starting the car and turning the heater on full blast. Clary shuddered as the initial cold gust hit her sodden face and clothing.

Jace flipped on the windshield wipers, but seconds after each swipe the glass was covered once more. He let out a frustrated breath. "We're going to have to wait until it slows."

"O-o-okay," Clary said through chattering teeth and shook her hands out, still desperately trying to bring feeling and warmth back to them.

Jace reached over and took them in his, bringing them up to his mouth and blowing hot air onto them. He glanced up at her from under his lashes. "That better?"

"A little," she whispered, keeping her eyes on his as he blew again. She shivered once more, but this time not from the cold.

"Now?" he asked quietly.

Clary nodded, the feeling starting to come back to her fingertips in a painful prickling sensation. Jace moved his face back, but kept his hands surrounding hers, his thumbs moving back and forth over her knuckles. The air coming from the vents had started to lose its chill and held a slight bit of warmth now, but not nearly as much as his touch on hers.

"We should get you out of that jacket."

Clary frowned. "What?"

Jace let go of her hands and reached behind her seat. "It's soaking wet. You'll never get warm with that thing on." He pulled a backpack onto the console between them and started rifling through it. After a few seconds, he drew out a hooded sweatshirt. "Here," he held it out to her, "put this on."

"Well, what about you? You're wet too." Clary nodded her head toward his shirt. "I'm not taking the only dry piece of clothing you have. I have stuff on underneath."

Jace threw the sweatshirt at her. "I have something else to wear."

Clary raised her brows skeptically.

He lifted his in return. Dipping his hand back into the bag, he drew out a black shirt. "See?"

"That's only a t-shirt," she scolded. "That's not enough."

"Okay, _Mom_," Jace said with a roll of his eyes, as he started to unbutton his wet shirt.

Clary turned away, her cheeks flaming hot. Her heart thumped hard in her chest and seemed to stop. Jace's words repeated themselves in her head over and over again. Mom. He'd called her that as a joke, she knew, but the reality of that word hit her so hard she could barely breathe.

She was going to be someone's mom. Someone was going to call her that, was going to depend on her for everything.

_Oh, God._

Clary drew in a breath, but when she did, it felt as if her throat closed in around it. She let out a choked noise and fanned her hand over her chest. Her heartbeat sped against her palm and her breathing became more and more shallow.

"Clary," Jace said, "Are you okay?"

But she couldn't answer. She couldn't breathe. Air moved quickly in and out of her lips, but it didn't matter how deep the breath felt, it was never enough. It was as if someone had dropped a hundred pound weight right in the center of her chest. She waved her hand in front of her, like that would help open her lungs.

Hands surrounded her face and turned her toward the driver's side.

"What's wrong?" Jace's voice sounded as if it were coming from miles beneath her.

Clary closed her eyes. She tried to take in another breath, but it still felt like her lungs would not fully inflate. "I can't catch my breath," she said, her voice raspy.

"Open your eyes, baby. Look at me."

But Clary couldn't. She grabbed at her throat, wishing she could somehow open it to get more air. Her head grew lighter and lighter, and she saw sparks of light flash behind her lids. And then she was floating—no, not floating, moving, being pulled forward, her legs dragging over the gear shift.

A moment later she was squished between Jace's warm body and the cold, hard console. His hands moved from where they'd gripped her upper arms to her face. "Open your eyes," he repeated.

Finally, she was able to crack her lids, and was met with his face just inches from hers. Her throat and chest still ached with every breath, but having him right there eased it some. Jace reached for her hands and brought them up to her face.

"Cup your hands over your mouth like this." He showed her what he meant, before grabbing her wrists again. "You're just hyperventilating. I don't make it a habit to carry around paper bags so this will have to do."

Clary did as he instructed, fitting her palms like a mask around her mouth. Her hot breath drew in and out rapidly against her skin, but after a minute started to slow and the dizziness lessened a little. She closed her eyes again and leaned her forehead against Jace's collarbone. He murmured soft encouragements as his fingers lightly ran through the loose strands next to her ear. Clary couldn't make out the exact words through her own frantic breathing, but the low hum of their vibrations in his chest was soothing enough.

A short while later, when Clary felt like she could breathe somewhat normally again, she dropped her hands from her mouth and twisted them into the partially opened fabric of Jace's shirt. He'd only managed to get two buttons undone, but it was enough for her to slip her fingers underneath and feel the smooth warmth of his skin. Somehow, that connection to him made her feel better, stronger.

"All right?" he asked, his lips brushing the top of her head.

Clary nodded. "How did you know what to do?"

"What do you mean?"

"To help with the—hyperventilating or whatever. How did you know about the hand thing?"

"One of the guys on our team, Santiago, used to do that sometimes before games. It was a nervous thing. He was too much of an asshole to just bring a bag, so he would cup his hands over his mouth." Jace shrugged. "It worked for him."

"It worked for me too," Clary said, moving her hand over his chest, her palm grazing a bit of his skin with each swipe. "Thank you."

Jace's arms wrapped around her and hugged her close. "Are you okay now?"

Clary nodded.

Jace sighed. "What was that all about?"

She fingered the top button of his shirt. The last thing she wanted to do was admit she'd freaked out over him joking around and calling her 'mom'. She didn't want him to feel like it was his fault, because it wasn't. It was hers, her own stupid brain being unable to handle a simple word. Blowing out a breath, she told him the truth, only in a somewhat omissive way. "I'm just scared," she whispered. "I'm so scared, Jace."

"Of what?" His hold tightened.

"Of . . . everything."

He was quiet for a moment, and when he finally spoke, his voice was low. "Are you changing your mind?"

Clary drew back and looked up at him. Even in the dark she could see the panic returning to his eyes. "No." She shook her head. "No, I'm not changing my mind. I'm just . . . terrified." She lifted her hand then dropped it back to his chest. "I still want everything I told you I wanted, but that doesn't mean I'm not freaking out about it. I mean, I don't know how to do any of this. I don't know anything about being someone's mom . . ."

Jace tucked a piece of hair behind her ear and continued stroking her cheek lightly with his thumb, as if he had to touch her as much as she had to touch him. "You think I know how to be a dad? Look at the example I had." He lowered his face to hers and rested his forehead against the top of her head. "I don't know anything either."

"So what do we do then?"

"We figure it out as we go," he kissed her forehead. "Like everyone else."

"But what if we don't? What if we suck and screw him up?"

Jace chuckled, his breath hitting her in soft bursts. "We're going to suck, and we're going to screw up. I think that's pretty much a given with everyone. But Jesus, we can't be any worse than our own parents."

"That's true. God, why do they suck so bad?" A shock of anger at her parents flashed through her.

"I really wish I knew," he said, some of the sadness from earlier slipping into his voice. "But we're going to be okay, Clary. I know we will. I promise you we will."

"Even if my father gets his way? Jace, what if you—"

His finger pressed against her lips. "Let's not think about that right now. I don't want to think about it. I don't want to think at all. I just want to sit here with you."

"But—"

"No buts. Just let me hold you for a minute."

Clary quieted as Jace's arms wrapped around her once more, pulling her into him. It wasn't the most comfortable position in the world, with the hard plastic console and the seat belt buckle digging into her back, but as she snuggled into him, she realized it had been quite some time since he'd held her like that. Sure, he'd hugged her and kissed her, but not since the night after she'd found him in the cemetery almost a month earlier had they really been alone and this close. She'd missed the feel of him, the way their bodies molded together, how warm his skin was against her, how when they moved and kissed and touched, it was like the most perfect dance in the world. She missed the closeness, how content and at peace and safe she'd felt those few times they'd been completely together.

So much had been happening, with his college visits, school, and now all of this crap with her father, she hadn't realized how long it had been. But now that she thought about it, she could feel that ache for him again. It was lodged in the pit of her stomach, lingering in the air coursing through her lungs, pressing deep into her bones. All the fear and anger and sadness over the past few weeks had taken everything she'd gained from those precious moments they'd shared before and stripped her clean. She wanted that feeling again: that closeness, that peace and safety. She craved it. Needed it.

Burying her face into his neck and twisting her hand into his shirt, she took in a deep breath, allowing the scent of him to flood her senses. "I've missed this," she said. "I've missed you." She loosened her grasp on his shirt and let her fingers slip into the opening and trace along the bare skin there. "I miss you still."

"I'm right here," he said, his breath stirring her hair.

"No," Clary pushed her whole hand under the flap of his shirt and slid it along his chest, up to his shoulder, and stopped at his neck. "I mean I _miss_ you." She stretched up and touched her lips to the underside of his jaw, her fingers tangling into the curls behind his ear. "I miss you so much."

"Oh," Jace's breath came out in one big gust, "you _miss_ me?" His fingers dug into her back and his pulse sped against the pad of Clary's thumb on his throat.

"Mmhmm," Clary said, as she peppered kisses down his throat and across his collarbone.

Jace's hands moved from her back and threaded into her hair as he lifted her face to his. "I miss you too, baby," he whispered, as he lowered his mouth to hers, lightly pressing their lips together.

Clary tried to deepen the kiss, but Jace pulled back before she could. She pouted, a small whimper escaping without her permission. "Then why are you stopping?"

"Because we're crammed in the front seat of my car. That's not exactly comfortable or romantic. Besides," he swiped her hair off her forehead and kissed her chastely near her temple where the bandage covered her stitches, "you've been through a lot today. I really should get you home."

Clary huffed and shifted in the seat, until she maneuvered herself onto his lap, straddling his legs. She had to hunch over so her head wouldn't hit the roof. "But I don't want to go home. I don't want to be anywhere you're not." Reaching down, she laced their fingers together, pulling them up to her face and kissing each of his knuckles. "I miss how these feel on me. All over me." She glanced up and caught his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed at her words. And then she moved her palms up his arms and traced his biceps. "I miss the way these wrap around me and make me feel so safe. I miss the way you look above me, how you watch me and kiss me." Her voice lowered to a whisper and she ghosted her finger along his collarbone, stopping when she reached the indent in his throat. "And I miss how you taste here."

"Jesus." Jace ran his hands over her hips.

"So you see," she said, "I don't need comfort or romance or anything else; I just need you."

His eyes were hard on hers: wide, dark, and all consuming. She worried he would still refuse her, but then he removed one hand from her hip and slipped it around the back of her neck, nudging her toward him.

"Come here," he said, his voice quiet and rough.

Clary's breath caught as she let Jace pull her down to him. He paused just before she met his lips, his eyes moving from one of hers to the other, and she could see everything he felt there. "Are you sure you're okay?" he asked, his gaze darting to her bandaged temple then back.

"Yes."

"You deserve better than this. Better than in the car." His words protested, but the way his fingers kneaded the back of her neck, and how tense he was beneath her, told her he wanted this just as much as she did.

"Believe me, there's no place else I'd rather be right now than exactly where we are, doing exactly this."

And then she closed the distance between them, his mouth soft and warm under hers. One of his hands slid up from her neck and twisted into her hair, while the other slipped under the back of her shirt, the warmth of his fingers against her flesh making her shiver.

Jace's lips parted, and he sucked her bottom one between his, biting down softly, then letting his tongue soothe the ache. "Shit. You taste good," he half-groaned against her mouth.

Clary pushed her face to his and kissed him deeper, harder, almost whimpering at the taste of him in her mouth. He was so good she could hardly stand it. Her hands fumbled at the buttons left fastened on his shirt, her still-stiff fingers slipping over the small, slick plastic. She let out a groan of frustration and yanked without thought, hearing a small rip.

She gasped and pulled back, seeing she'd actually torn off the button and ripped the buttonhole larger. "Crap," she said. "I'm sorry."

"Do you think I care?" Jace said, grabbing the two halves of his shirt and pulling them open the rest of the way, the tiny buttons flying off and hitting the door beside them. "See? I can do it too."

Clary laughed and leaned back into him, thrusting her fingers into his hair and kissing him again. Jace fiddled with her jacket, his elbows banging the door and console as he struggled to pull it off her.

"Damn it," he said, after a particularly loud bang. "Sit up."

Clary snickered again as she did what he asked, managing to hit her head on the roof in the process. "Ow," she said, rubbing the spot.

This time Jace chuckled, reaching up to touch where she had hit it. "You okay?"

"Yeah," she grumbled, her face heating. "Just a little mortified, is all." She sighed. "Maybe I was a little over-confident in my abilities to sex you up in the car. I clearly have no idea what I'm doing." She gestured to his ripped shirt and her apparently glued on jacket. "Maybe this wasn't such a good idea."

"Oh, no," Jace said, reaching for her jacket and, with some effort, shimmied it down her arms. "No take backs. We're doing this. I've now accepted it as a personal challenge." His grin was so wide it took up his entire face. It had been so long since Clary had seen him smile that big. She couldn't deny him anything when he looked at her like that.

She pushed his ruined shirt off his shoulders and down his arms, letting her fingers linger on the exposed skin there. "But if I can't even get my jacket off, how am I going to get out of my pants?"

Jace touched his lips to hers, smiling against her mouth as he kissed her lightly. "Don't you worry about your pants, I've got that covered. I will own those pants before we're done."

"So, then do I get to own your pants?"

"Mmhmm. You already own my pants."

Clary snorted and tipped her head back as Jace attacked her neck with his mouth, leaving behind slow, open-mouthed kisses. Her hands were back in his hair and his were under her shirt, messing with the clasp of her bra. After a few more awkward movements, limbs banging the door or the steering wheel followed by a half-dozen curses and a whole lot of giggles, Clary's shirt and bra were gone.

"Holy shit," Jace said, freezing with his hands on Clary's ribs.

"What?" She looked down and saw him staring wide-eyed at her chest.

"What the hell are these?"

Clary frowned. "What are what?"

"These." Jace's hands inched slowly up her sides until they gently cupped her chest. Clary had to bite her lip against the rush of sensation that shot through her. God, they were sensitive, almost too sensitive. "What the hell are _these_?"

"Those are boobs, Jace. You know, the rounded, fleshy things guys seem to obsess over?" She felt her face heat, and she had the overwhelming urge to cover herself. Her voice quieted to just above a whisper. "Why? Is there something wrong with them?"

"God, no." Jace continued to look at her, his hands starting to explore a little more, and Clary's breath hitched at the sensation of his fingers moving over her.

"Th . . . then what?"

"They're just . . . so much _bigger_."

She swatted Jace on the shoulder, relief flowing over her. "Asshole! You had me thinking I'd become deformed or something."

"Sorry." Jace chuckled. "You just should have warned me first. Jesus Christ."

"What exactly should I have said? 'Jace, by the way, I think you should know my boobs have gone up two cup sizes since you knocked me up.'" She narrowed her eyes at him as he laughed. "It's not funny!" But she couldn't quite stop the grin pulling at her lips.

Maybe it should have felt wrong to laugh and mess around that way, considering everything they were facing. But Clary needed this, needed this moment to put everything else aside and just be with him. She suspected Jace needed it just as much. There, in his car in the middle of a snow storm, with no one but Simon knowing where they were, no chance of interruption or trouble, Clary felt like the teenager she was.

A hormonal, crazy-in-love teenager, but a teenager nonetheless.

And being a teenager had never felt so good.

"I'm sorry," he said again, leaning in to kiss her over her heart. "I never meant to insinuate that they were anything but perfect. Because these boobs are absolutely, positively, the most beautifully, perfect boobs ever."

"You're an idiot."

Jace glanced up at her and grinned, batting his lashes for full effect. "Is my apology enough or do I need to grovel?"

Clary ran her fingers over his slightly swollen mouth. "I wouldn't be opposed to some groveling."

"Of course not." He tried unsuccessfully to bite back a smirk. "So, how would you like me to start?" He moved his thumbs softly over her, causing her to shiver for about the fifth time.

"Well, you could . . . keep doing . . . that . . . for . . . starters . . ." She closed her eyes and shifted slightly in his lap.

"Uh huh, and?"

"And . . . and . . ." She swallowed against the chills raking up and down her spine from his touch. "And . . . you could . . . God . . . kiss me . . . just kiss me."

"Where?" Strained roughness entered his voice again.

"A . . . anywhere," she choked out.

"Anywhere?"

She nodded. "Anywhere."

Jace's hands left her, and Clary missed the warmth of them immediately. He feathered his fingers down her arm, wrapped them around her wrist, and brought it up to his mouth. "How about here?" he asked, as his lips brushed the underside of her wrist, so gently, so carefully she could barely feel it. "Or here?" He moved to the inside of her elbow, his mouth open and his tongue swiping lightly against the skin there. "Or here?" her shoulder, "Here?" across her collarbone, "Or here?" just over her heart, "Or . . . ?" he whispered, his hot mouth closing over her overly sensitive flesh.

Clary gasped loudly and clutched at his arms, her fingers digging into his biceps. And that was all it took for them to become a flurry of hands and arms and fingers and mouths. Jace kissed and licked everything he could reach, and Clary did the same in return. Her hands were all over his torso: in his hair, down his chest, across his abs, digging into his shoulders. She tasted his mouth, his neck, his collarbone, the space in his throat she'd been dying to taste before. And it was the same, but different all at the same time.

In the times they'd been together before, both of them had been in some sort of highly emotional state; whether it had been extreme nervousness like the second-first time, or in a desperate need to feel connection to someone else, like the time in the shower. This time, sure there was that layer of wanting to be distracted, of wanting to not think anymore about what they'd be facing from now on, but more so it just plain felt good.

It felt good to be with him this way: all clumsy touches and fumbling tongues, smiles for kisses, and laughter instead of tears. It felt right to be crammed in the front seat of Jace's car, trying to balance on the seat while giggling into his smiling mouth, as he attempted to simultaneously kiss her and get her out of her jeans. It felt perfect to hover over him after she'd pushed his pants and boxers to his knees, and found him staring up at her with the same want and need she was sure he saw in her. And when he reached for her, gathering her hair and holding it back with the gentlest touch of his fingers against the back of her neck, it felt like home.

"I get it now," Jace whispered.

"Get what?" Clary frowned.

"What you said about seeing me above you. I understand now." Clary felt her face heat, as Jace brushed his other hand over her cheek. "You're beautiful up there."

Clary shuddered as she gazed down, seeing every line of him in the dull illumination from the stereo. Perspiration gathered in a thin, glistening layer along his collarbone and down the center of his chest. He looked different from this position, younger, more vulnerable, and the thought of that made her heart ache. She wondered if this was how she'd looked to him when he'd been staring down at her. Had her eyes been that wide and dark? Had her chest moved so rapidly under his touch? Had he felt the same fear she felt now, knowing she was the one in control? And then she realized with a start that she had no idea how to do it this way. He'd always taken the lead before, had always shown her what to do, but this time it was all up to her. The thought had her catching her breath.

Jace's brows drew together. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." She shook her head. "I just . . . I don't . . . I don't really know how . . ." She gestured between them, hoping he got what she meant so she didn't have to say it out loud. "I don't want to do it wrong."

Realization dawned over his face, and he pulled her down to him, kissing her lips softly, reassuringly. "There's nothing you could do that would be wrong right now."

"But what if I hurt you?"

"Unless you bend it in half—which honestly would take an act of God in the state it's in now—that's not going to happen."

Clary closed her eyes and touched her forehead to his, taking in a breath to calm her nerves. "Show me how?" she whispered.

She felt his reply as he nodded and his hands wrapped around her hips, pushing her body down his. Not another word was spoken as she sat up slightly, pressing her hand flat to his chest and feeling the strong beat of his heart against her palm, and shifted up on her knees when he urged her to. Jace's eyes stayed on her face, and his fingers tightened around her hips as she slowly lowered herself back down. His breath stuttered between his lips, and then Clary could feel him everywhere: damp muscles beneath her fingertips, nails dug into her flesh, slender hips trapped between her thighs.

She opened her eyes, not having realized she'd closed them in the first place, and looked down at Jace. His were still on her, so dark, so large, and his brows were drawn together, his lips parted slightly.

He was so beautiful. So, so beautiful.

Clary couldn't help leaning down to capture his mouth once more, fingers tracing lightly along his jaw. When she did, his hands slid up her back, cupping over her shoulder blades and the tops of her shoulders and pulling her down at the same time his hips shifted up.

Clary stilled above Jace, her mouth open over his, her hands gripping his shoulders as he held hers, their breath catching and releasing as one. She could feel the tension in him: in his fingers and arms and hips and abdomen. She could see the need in his face, taste it on his lips, and knew with certainty he could feel, see, and taste it on her too. She needed him so much her body trembled with it. So she didn't deny them any further, didn't take any more time to feel nervous or inadequate, she just let herself go, let him go.

And even though her movements were unsure and awkward, the way Jace held her body flush against his, his hands on her back and in her hair, his mouth praising her with kisses and encouragements and curses that set her skin on fire, made her feel graceful. He guided her without telling her what to do, without making her feel like she couldn't explore and make mistakes and learn along the way.

This was one of the things she loved most about him. How he was so patient with her. How he knew better what she needed and wanted after four months than her family did after sixteen years. How he knew how to love her, when everyone else used her.

Being there with him right then, like they were, playful and teasing and passionate, made all the insecurity and fear she'd been harboring all day just disappear. And as the physical and emotional sensations inside her mixed and swelled and rose to a shuddering crescendo, it was then she knew they would be okay. As long as they had each other, everything would be okay.

With Jace's arms wrapped tightly around her afterward, both their chests rising and falling with still-rapid breaths and her head resting against him, the echo of his slowing heartbeat loud in her ear, she knew that this was what was real and important and pure. This, the way he held her, touched her, whispered to her how much he loved her, _this_ was what they were fighting for.

This was what was going to get them through.

And this was what was going to save them both.

.o.O.o.

The feeling of calm contentment only lasted long enough for Jace to drive out of the parking lot. As soon as the snow had stopped, as soon as he and Clary had managed to find their clothes, as soon as she'd lifted her head from where it had rested on his chest, the tightness around his heart returned.

On the drive to Isabelle's—where Clary had asked Jace to take her, rather than her own house—he had managed to keep up with their lighthearted banter, holding her hand and laughing when she did. But it was there inside him, festering and growing larger and tighter as the minutes passed. He hadn't wanted her to know, so he tried his hardest to pretend it wasn't there, to pretend that he was as confident about everything as he tried to portray.

But he wasn't.

He was just as scared as her, just as worried that things might not be okay. That he might end up breaking his promise anyway, because he wasn't stupid enough to think any of this bullshit was under his control. None of it was. But Clary couldn't know that. She needed to think he was strong. She needed him to be strong.

So when he stopped outside of her friend's house and Clary leaned over to kiss him, he let her. He let her and he kissed her back in return, his hand cupped around her face, fingers soft against her skin. And for those few seconds that their mouths touched, the anxiety twisting his insides into knots lessened just a little.

For her he could do this. For her, he would be whatever she needed. There was no reason she should have to know about the torment still raging inside of him. If he could give her this one night, this one _moment_ free of it, then it would be worth going it alone.

But as he watched her walk away, as he drove through the snow-covered streets, as he parked in front of his dark, empty home, the fear and loneliness bled through him like a disease. Jace stared up at the unlit windows and the overwhelming need to leave slammed into him. He did not want to be there, surrounded by the emptiness and hollow reminders of his father's words. It hurt to sit there. It hurt to breathe there. But this was all he had, this house, these memories.

He supposed he shouldn't discount his extended family on his mother's side. But they lived several hours away, and he barely knew them anyway. He saw them once a year on holidays, and not a single one of them acknowledged him any other time. Not even on his birthday.

Jace was alone. Jace had been alone for a long time.

Other than Clary, and maybe Sebastian, there was no one else.

With a sigh, Jace removed his keys from the ignition and grabbed his phone. It was time to suck this shit up. No matter how much he wished his life were different, no matter how much he wanted to be anywhere but where he was, this was what he had. These were his cards and he'd live with the way they were dealt.

Just as Jace stepped out of his car into the freezing night air, his phone buzzed in his hand. Looking down, he frowned at the unknown number on the display. At first he'd thought maybe it was Clary, but this number was not from anywhere in town. His first inclination was to ignore it—the last thing he wanted to deal with were telemarketers or some other shit—but something told him he needed to answer this call. He pressed the accept button and lifted the phone to his ear.

"Hello?"

The voice on the other end of the line came clear and formal. "May I speak to Mr. Jace Wayland?"

"This is Jace," he said, leaning back against his car, as a few soft flakes started to fall once more.

"Ah, Mr. Wayland." The man paused. "This is Dean Campbell from Central University. You came to visit after receiving our scholarship offer early last week."

"Yes, sir."

There was a pause, and Jace heard Dean Campbell take in a breath. "I'm sorry to call so late and on holiday break for that matter, but we have a situation that could not wait."

Jace frowned. "What situation?"

"We received a call tonight informing us that you had been taken into police custody and charged with a crime. Is this true?"

For a moment Jace couldn't say anything. Who the hell would call them? Who would—and then he knew. Valentine Morgenstern. Of course.

"Yes, sir, it's true but—"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Wayland, but we have a strict policy on this. None of our athletes—or recruits—can have any sort of criminal record, or even the implication of one. It is imperative to our reputation, and you would be a very high profile player."

"But, sir, this is—"

"I'm sorry," the man said quietly. "I'm afraid we will have to withdraw our offer for a scholarship and for you to play football for this university. I wish you luck in whatever is going on in your life, but I'm afraid our academic relationship must end here. Have a nice holiday."

And with those parting words, the dean clicked off, and Jace was met with silence. He closed his eyes and his fingers clenched around the phone. But there wasn't time to process what had just happened, what else he'd just lost, because behind the safe darkness of his eyelids, a flash of light passed over them. Slowly, he opened his eyes and was met by the stream of headlights behind the closed gate of his driveway.

Jace lowered the phone and slipped it into his pocket, as he squinted into the brightness. A figured climbed out of the car: a small, thin figure, but Jace did not recognize who it was. It wasn't until the person made their way around to the front of the car and stood between the gate and the headlights, that he knew who she was.

"Hello, Jace," the woman said. "I think it's time you and I talk."

.o.O.o.

"I can't believe you jumped out a window," Isabelle said, her body stretched out beside Clary's on her bed. "You could have gotten seriously hurt."

Clary rolled her eyes. "I only dropped a couple of feet. Even I can manage that, Iz. And it's not like I haven't escaped out a window before."

"Yeah, but you're pregnant. You shouldn't be doing stuff like that anymore."

Clary sighed and rubbed her forehead. "Well, what else was I supposed to do? My dad is trying to force me to go to an adoption agency. I can't do that . . ." She looked down at her stomach but did not touch. Even though she'd made the decision she had, it still freaked her out a bit to touch the bulge and realize that underneath it laid a human being. A baby.

"You're sure?" Isabelle asked, her voice quiet. "About keeping the baby, I mean."

Clary turned to her friend, meeting her dark eyes. "Yeah," she said. "I know it's crazy, but . . . but I can't give him up. I thought about it. Believe me. I thought about it a lot. I have no idea how I'm going to manage this with school and everything. And especially with the way my dad's acting. I just . . . I don't know, Iz."

"You know he can't make you do anything you don't want to."

Clary pushed a breath between her lips. "Really? Because that's not what he says."

"What do you mean?" Isabelle furrowed her brows.

"He said it's his right as my father to make decisions for me when I'm 'incapable of making responsible choices.'"

Isabelle sat up, her mouth open and brows raised. "That's bullshit, Clary. You know that, right?"

"I—I don't know."

She leaned down again, until she rested on her elbow beside Clary. "Well, it is. This is your body and your baby. He can't make you do anything with either. This is your choice, Clary, and if you choose to keep the baby, then it's totally up to you."

Clary closed her eyes and scratched at a spot on her side that kept itching. "I'm just so confused. I mean, he said—"

"Forget what he said. He's bullying you, Clary."

Clary opened her eyes and stared at her friend.

"You get to make the call here. Not him. I don't care if he's your father. This—adoption or no adoption—is your choice. It's always been your choice."

"But what if I've made the wrong one?" she whispered, her words hitching. "What if I can't do this? What if I can't take care of him? I don't know what my dad's going to do now. I mean, you know he doesn't take well to being disobeyed. What if he—"

"Hey," Isabelle said, reaching over to grab Clary's face by the chin. "No matter what that asshole does, you are not going to do this alone. I promised you. Jace promised you. We have your back." She let go and glanced down at Clary's stomach. "We have his back too. You just do what you have to do, and we'll do what we have to do."

Clary's eyes stung and she rubbed at her side again.

"Why do you keep doing that?" Isabelle asked.

"Doing what?" Clary wiped at her eyes and scratched her stomach once more.

"That." Isabelle pointed to the hand digging at Clary's skin. "Why do you keep doing that?"

Clary glanced down. "Oh. It . . . itches, or something." She removed her hand and felt the slight tickling again. "God, do you have bugs or something in here?" She moved to scratch again, when Isabelle grabbed her hand.

"Wait— What does it feel like?" Isabelle's eyes grew wide.

"What—? It feels itchy. Now let go of my hand."

Isabelle shook her head and smiled up at Clary.

"What?"

Isabelle rolled her eyes. "Don't you ever read that book I gave you?"

"What does that have to do with you having a bug infested room?"

Isabelle raised a brow. "Do you see any bugs?"

Clary returned her gaze to her stomach, feeling the tickling again, but seeing no bugs at all. "No, but . . ." And then she realized that what she was feeling wasn't really a tickly at all, it was more a soft thump followed by a drag. So light, so small, she's mistaken it for something touching the outside of her skin. But this wasn't on the outside at all. "Oh . . ." she breathed.

"Yeah, 'oh,'" Isabelle said, her eyes still glued to Clary's stomach. "When my mom was pregnant with Max she said the first movement felt like a tickle. Like a bug or something was walking across her skin."

Clary lifted the hem of her shirt and stared at her stomach. The soft thumps and slips continued intermittently, but she couldn't see anything on the outside at all. She placed her hand over the spot, but still, the only sensations were on the inside. "Oh my God, that's weird."

Isabelle placed her hand over Clary's, and Clary looked up and met her friend's stare. "I've got your back," she repeated. "Both of you."

Clary couldn't stop the tears that spilled over her cheeks. She threw her arms around Isabelle's neck and hugged her tightly. "Thank you," she said. Her eyes closed and she buried her face into Isabelle's hair. "Just . . . thank you."

.o.O.o.

Jocelyn Morgenstern stood at the mouth of Jace's driveway illuminated in the beams of her headlights, her hands clasped in front of her and her head covered in a knit hat, red curls spilling over her shoulders. She looked so much like Clary, Jace had to blink several times before his brain got the message that she wasn't her daughter.

"She's not here," he said, figuring there was only one reason Clary's mother would be there.

"Oh, I know," Jocelyn said.

"How—"

"Maryse Lightwood called me when Clary was dropped off there." She eyed Jace. "I'm assuming you took her there since you seem to know I'd be looking for her."

Jace said nothing and crossed his arms over his chest.

She smiled. "I don't expect you to admit to it, but thank you for taking care of her."

"What do you want, then, if you knew she wouldn't be here?"

She hesitated. "There are some things I'd like to say to you."

"What?" Jace said, his voice hard. "What else could you possibly need to say to me that your husband hasn't already?"

Jocelyn sighed. "Would you believe me if I said I'm sorry for what he's doing?"

"Why should I?"

"You shouldn't." She shook her head. "But I am."

Jace stuffed his hands in his pockets and moved toward the gate, stopping when he was a couple of feet away from Clary's mother. "I'm listening."

Jocelyn drew in a breath and bit down on her lower lip. A gesture Jace was very familiar with from her daughter. "My husband—Valentine—is a very difficult man. He's used to getting his way, always, and he doesn't react well when he doesn't get it."

"You don't say," Jace said.

Jocelyn met his gaze. "You know that this isn't really about you at all, don't you? This whole thing. It's about—"

"My father," Jace said. "Yeah, I know."

"No," Jocelyn said. "I don't think you do." She paused, drawing her gaze to something behind Jace before bringing it back to him. "The feud isn't really about him. It's about me."

"You?" Jace raised a brow. "I don't understand."

Jocelyn smiled and glanced down at the ground. "No, you wouldn't, would you? Because it makes no sense. But it's true. Whenever you hear about a feud that's taken place in history, what is it usually over?" Her eyes lifted to his. "A girl. It's always a girl, isn't it?"

Jace had no words, so he just stared at Clary's mother.

"And this time I just happen to be that girl."

Jocelyn shifted on her feet before continuing.

"Northwest and Southeast have always been rivals for as long as I can remember. Back when my parents were there, when their parents were, and so on. But it wasn't until my senior year that they were both equally ranked to take state. You see, that year, both teams had lucked out and had two of the best quarterbacks the state had ever seen. Valentine Morgenstern for Southeast, and Michael Wayland for Northwest." She reached up and drew her hat from her head, the flakes fluttering from above and gathering in her hair. "I was head cheerleader for Northwest, and I . . ." She drew in a breath. "And I was the girlfriend of our star quarterback."

Jace's brows rose. "You were dating my dad?"

Jocelyn nodded. "I had been since our freshman year, and we'd been the best of friends for years before that. It just seemed natural for us to be together." She shrugged. "But there was just never that . . . spark . . . that . . . passion. I didn't even know that's what I should have been looking for because Michael and I just always were. And we made sense together." She fiddled with her fingers before looking up once more. "Then my best friend had a party."

Shit. Jace could see where this was going.

"And at this party, was this boy I'd never met before, but I knew his name. He was so charismatic and fun and . . . beautiful. And when I was around him, I felt . . . alive." Her eyes pleaded with Jace. "We had that spark that I was missing with Michael." She swallowed. "I couldn't help myself . . . But I couldn't bring myself to hurt Michael. I didn't know how. So Valentine and I would get together in secret. Months this lasted until . . . Well, until Michael . . . found us. Unsurprisingly, he was enraged. They fought. He called me every name in the book, whore being the most prevalent, and he swore we'd pay. And we have," she whispered. "Every day since that day, we have. It was during that fight that Michael damaged his shoulder and could no longer play."

Jace couldn't believe what he was hearing. His father had never told him Morgenstern was the one who had injured him, though he had always placed the blame there.

"I tried so hard to mend what I had broken, but I couldn't. Neither of them would hear of it, neither of them were interested in a truce, so now it continues. The thing I started by my carelessness with Michael's feelings continues. And now it's on you." She looked up at him with wet eyes. "And I'm more sorry than you can know."

"So . . ." Jace said, his voice shaking. "All of this started because you cheated on my dad with Morgenstern? It's that simple?"

Jocelyn lifted her arms and dropped them to her side. "Isn't it always?"

Jace shook his head. "I can't believe this . . ." He glanced up at the sky then back down at Clary's mother. "He's ruining my life, his daughter's life, all because . . . why? I don't get it. This was twenty years ago! And he wasn't even the one cheated on."

"I can't justify why Valentine does what he does. This feud is in his veins like blood, he can't get rid of it. Neither of them can. It's irrational. It's crazy. And it's the way feuds go. These things are almost always ninety-nine percent ego and one percent incident. It's an obsession. A prideful, all-consuming obsession. And it's the reason I had to get out."

She looked down at the ground, and Jace couldn't help but stare at her as she did. She was full of reasons, reasons that made sense. But none of those reasons could excuse what she'd done to Clary. Not in his eyes, and probably never in hers. He didn't feel the least bit sorry for her. Maybe that made him an asshole, but, well, there it was.

"I couldn't take it anymore," she continued, her voice quiet and low. "The threats. The constant reminders. At one point I tried to smooth it over. I went to Michael—he was with your mother by then and you were maybe four or five at the time—and I begged him to stop it. It had been so long, and it was bleeding into everything they did. I begged him to see reason, as he had always been the more rational of the two, that this thing between them was ruining our lives, but of course he wouldn't hear of it. He—he kicked me out and told me never to come back, that he couldn't stand the sight of me, even all those years later." She shook her head. "When Valentine found out I'd met with Michael, he was livid. He swore I'd slept with him, that I would never change and once a whore, always a whore. And it was then I started to withdraw, started staying away longer and longer for work. I just couldn't go back to him, but he threatened to take the kids away if I left him for good, so I waited. I waited until they were both old enough, and then I . . ."

She didn't finish. Jace stood across from her, his hands curled into fists in his pockets. "Clary was only fifteen when you moved out. That's old enough? That's old enough to not have a mother?"

"No. No age is old enough. But Valentine grew more and more vile as the years passed, more vicious in the way he spoke and dealt with me. All I was trying to do was make a life elsewhere, and then I was coming back for her."

"But you left her alone with him." Jace could feel his blood boiling. "You left her alone with a man you describe as vile and vicious. Why didn't you take her with you?"

"I don't know," she whispered. "I just . . . I don't know. I wasn't thinking about anything but getting away, starting a new life away from him and Michael and everything between them. I should have. I should have left earlier and taken them both, but I didn't. I didn't and now she wants nothing to do with me."

"Do you blame her?"

"No," Jocelyn said. "But that doesn't mean I'm not going to try to help her in any way I can."

"How are you going to manage that if she wants nothing to do with you?"

Jocelyn glanced up at him from under her lashes. "By helping you."

"Me?" Jace frowned, the surprise he felt surely showing on his face. "You think by helping me she'll forgive you? I don't think you know your daughter very well."

A small smile pulled at her lips. "I'm not doing this for her forgiveness. I don't deserve that. Not yet anyway," she said. "I'm doing this to earn the redemption I want so badly, in my own eyes. I'm doing this because you don't deserve what's being done to you. I'm doing this because I can see how much you care about my daughter and about . . . your son."

Jace swallowed against the closing feeling his throat.

"And I'm doing this because you two should get the chance to make the decisions you need to make, without the influence of a hard and bitter man, and the remnants of a feud that has nothing to do with either of you."

"It's a little too late for that," Jace said. "What's done is done."

"It's never too late." She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a small, white rectangular object. She stared down at it, rubbing her thumb over the upraised writing on the front. "I can only imagine what your reaction is going to be to this, but I hope you'll at least give it some thought." She handed the object over to him, and when Jace's fingers closed around it, he realized it was a business card. Before he had a chance to read it, Jocelyn spoke again. "He's a good man, Jace. A really good man, and he wants to help."

Jace frowned and finally glanced down at the writing on the card. His breath caught and he nearly choked at what he saw.

_STEPHEN HERONDALE _

_Attorney at Law_

Jace shook his head almost violently and thrust the card back at her, but she made no move to take it. "Please. Take it back. I don't want it."

"I know you don't," Jocelyn said, as she reached out toward the card, but instead of taking it, wrapped her hands around Jace's, sealing the card in between. "But he's really good, the best, and he wants to do this for you. People make a lot of mistakes, Jace. God, do I know this. And sometimes those mistakes seem unforgivable. But the thing is, we can't take those mistakes back. The only thing we can do is learn from them, and try our best to make up for them."

Jace continued to shake his head, his hand now trembling under hers as well.

"You don't have to forgive him. You don't even have to acknowledge who he is to you," Jocelyn said. "All I'm asking is that you think about it. Think about what this could do for you and Clary and your son."

Jace closed his eyes and bowed his head, the thoughts pounding against the side of his skull. He couldn't do this; he couldn't accept this man's help.

"And maybe you can remember." Jocelyn's voice floated through the cold air and the bars separating them and hit him right in the heart. "That nobody is perfect. People mess up, sometimes really, really badly. And sometimes we—sometimes _people_ . . . need a lot of years to realize what's really worth fighting for."

"I can't," Jace said. "I just . . . I can't."

"'_Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall,_'" she said.

Jace met her gaze, his brows drawn together and his chest aching with his inability to catch his breath. He recognized the quotation as one of the Proverbs from the Bible.

"Don't let yours stand in the way of doing what you have to do, Jace. Don't repeat the mistakes your fathers made."

He noticed the plural of the word _father_.

"You are already stronger than them both." Jocelyn squeezed his hand and let him go, before taking a few steps backward and turning to get into her car.

Jace watched as she pulled away, leaving him standing alone in the dark of his driveway, snow swirling around him and falling to the ground. After a few moments, he allowed his gaze to fall to his hand, where he clutched the business card between his fingers.

_You are already stronger than them both._

Was he? He didn't know that he was. But maybe he could be.

With a deep inhale, he closed his eyes and lifted his face to the sky, breathing in the scent of the fresh, clean winter air. His mind was a mess of thoughts, not a single one coming clear no matter how hard he tried to concentrate. He stood there a little longer, letting the frigid ice melt and run down his face, hoping for some sort of sign, some sort of answer to reveal itself to him. But nothing did, because there were no right answers. There were no wrong ones either.

No matter how difficult it was, he had to make a decision. He had to do everything he could to keep his promise to Clary. To his son. No matter what, he would do that. He would do anything to do that.

And that was all the answer he needed.

With resolve and newfound clarity, Jace opened his eyes started back toward the house, stopping by his car to grab his bag and clutching the card Clary's mother had given him harder in his palm.

* * *

><p><em>So, now we know what happened all those years ago. And yes, it was that simple! Like Jocelyn said, most feuds start with something very, very small and they escalate due to ego and pride. Valentine and Michael are two of the MOST arrogant men I have ever had the displeasure of writing.<em>

_Some of you guessed already what the feud was about, and a very few of you guessed that Stephen would come back into play and in what way. Good job (either that, or I am just seriously unsurprising! ;))_

_I want to express my sincere thanks to all of you who take the time to send me a few words when you finish each chapter. I know I say this every time, but I mean it: you have no idea how much it means to me. So, thank you, again, and I can't wait to hear what you have to say about all this!_

_**Bible verse Jocelyn quoted: Proverbs 16:18  
><em>

_Until next time, xoxo ~ddpjclaf_


	23. Every Reason

**Chapter Twenty-Three - "Every Reason"**

***Before we begin, I must apologize for two things:

1.) I'm sorry for the length of time between updates. I know some of you have been getting impatient, but it really could not be helped. Not only was I dealing with a husband on afternoon shift for 3 weeks, I was also dealing with 4 bored kids on summer vacation and a nasty case of writer's block (probably induced by said husband and kids).

2.) This is 100% a transition chapter. :( I'm sorry. I want more than anything to move forward and see more of the pregnancy issues, how Clary deals with going to school while having a noticeable baby bump, how Jace handles his floundering reputation once word of his predicament comes out, how their relationship works in public, etc, etc. But I just can't leap there. There were all these tiny little things that needed to be addressed: lingering fears, doubts and emotional fallout, stupid Valentine! Etc. So, please bear with me. And I love you all.

A big thank you to my beta, Lightlacedwithbeauty. She always comes through for me. ILY, girl!

Chapter songs:

**Please Don't Leave Quite Yet – Adam Agin

**Acoustic #3 – Goo Goo Dolls

**Alien – Cary Brothers

**I'll Stand By You – Pretenders

**The Reason - Hoobastank (added after writing the chapter because it fit perfectly with Jace's end thoughts)

* * *

><p><em>Some time in the dead of night, a cat yowled outside of Isabelle's bedroom window. Clary snuggled further into the warm comforter and pulled her pillow down over her head to try to muffle out the sound. "Izzy, your cat," she mumbled. <em>

_There was no response, and after several minutes the wailing grew so loud it was almost as if it were screaming directly into her ear. With a frustrated growl, Clary flung the pillow across the room and reached over to smack Isabelle awake so she could go deal with her stupid cat. But when her hand touched nothing but cold, empty sheets, she knew immediately that something wasn't right. Isabelle loved her sleep, so there was no way she wouldn't be snoring along with Clary._

_Frowning, Clary blinked open her eyes, expecting to see the shadowed shapes of Izzy's dresser, bedframe, and the chair in the corner, which was always covered with hastily discarded clothing. However, that wasn't what she saw at all. Instead, there was nothing. Nothing but darkness: thick, complete, and black. A darkness so vast and heavy it was like a living, breathing entity. _

"_Iz?" Clary said into the void, her voice seeming to stick in the heavy air. There was still no answer, and Clary noticed for the first time the unnaturalness of the silence. "Iz . . ."_

_She swallowed against the panic rising in her throat, and the cat cried out once more: long, high, and insistent. And this time, Clary questioned her initial thought that it was a cat at all. There was something off with the pitch and length of the wails, and the sound made the hairs on the back of her neck rise. _

_Clary turned her ear in the direction the sound resonated from and realized with a jolt that the cries were not coming from outside, but from inside, near the far corner of Isabelle's room._

How did it get inside?_ Clary wondered._

_As soon as the thought flitted through her mind, a soft white glow emanated from the ceiling in the corner. Clary narrowed her eyes, as the light grew brighter, bringing into focus a long, gauzy piece of fabric, stretching down from the ceiling in the shape of a cone and pooling onto the floor. _

_The cry came again: louder, more insistent, and Clary felt an unexplainable tug inside of her urging her to go toward it. The light in the corner started to pulse, almost exactly in tune to the beat of her heart. Her legs moved of their own accord and swung over the side of the bed. Thick, plush carpet pushed between her toes as she stood. The wails grew shriller and more desperate with each step she took. _

_Clary closed the space between herself and the lighted corner in no time. She slid her hand through a slit in the fabric, pulling the gossamer material back and finally spying what was inside. Her breath caught as she stared down at the small empty basket covered in soft-looking white sheets and blankets. Her head pounded with confusion, as she ran her palm over the feathery throw draped over top._

_Another cry broke through the silence, and Clary spun toward it, spotting another light several yards deeper into the dark. A man, wearing dark slacks and a white dress shirt that stretched over his broad back, stood in the middle of the illumination. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows and he was swaying slowly from side to side. His face was turned away, but Clary could see by his hunched stance that he cradled something in his arms._

"_Hello?" she called out. _

_The man did not look in her direction and started to walk away. _

"_Wait!" she said, taking a few steps forward._

_This time the man paused and turned toward her. Clary froze when she realized the man wasn't just a man at all; he was her father._

"_Dad?" she moved even closer. "What are you—"_

_The cry sounded again and Clary's eyes were drawn to her father's arms. In them he held a squirming bundle of white blankets. She blinked several times before meeting his gaze._

"_Dad?" she asked again._

"_This is what's best for everyone, Clarissa," he said, as he started to back away._

"_What's best? What are you talking about?"_

_The bundle in his arms wiggled again and a flap of blanket fell away, revealing a tiny, pale fist. Realization crashed over Clary and her hands went immediately to the swell in her stomach. The swell that was no longer there. Her abdomen was flat and soft, as if there had never been a bump there at all._

"_Daddy," she said, "What are you doing? Give him to me."_

_Her father's face was hard, impassive. "You're too young for this responsibility, Clarissa. You don't know the first thing about raising a child. You'll thank me for this some day." And with those words, he turned and retreated into the dark, but the cries still filled the space._

"_Dad! Stop!" Clary called, as she ran in the direction he'd gone, but before she'd gotten very far, she slammed into something hard and cold. She reached out and wrapped her hands around it, discovering instantly that what was in front of her were bars. She moved her hands out to the sides, then turned and felt behind her, only to find that the bars stretched all the way around, caging her in. _

_Tears rolled over her cheeks, and she pounded against the bars, the sound echoing for what seemed like miles. Slowly, the space in front of her lightened, and she could see another set of bars—or really, another cage. And in that cage, was Jace._

_He sat on the floor, his back pressed into one corner and his feet wedged in another. It wasn't big enough for him to lay, only to sit or stand._

_Clary knelt down and wrapped her hands around the cool metal. "Jace?"_

_As she said his name, he peered up at her, his eyes dull and rimmed in shadow. His face was dirty and sunken, as if he'd been trapped there for a long time. Clary reached through the space in the bars toward him, but he just stared at her like he didn't know her._

"_Jace?" she said again._

"_This is all your fault," he said, his voice harsh and cold like ice._

"_Wh—what?"_

"_If it weren't for you, I wouldn't be here. I'd be in college playing ball, getting girls, being happy. Not stuck here." His eyes were so dead, he didn't even look like him anymore. "I wouldn't be stuck with you."_

"_You don't mean that," she whispered. "You said you wanted this. You said—"_

"_I loved you," Jace said, and he looked away out into the dark. "I loved you, and you ruined me. You ruined everything."_

_Another patch of brightness appeared a distance away, drawing Clary's gaze from Jace to it. Again, her father stood in this light, the bundle still in his hands. But as Clary watched, she saw her father's arms extend, and other arms reach for what he offered._

"_Daddy! No!" she called, but he didn't seem to hear her. She looked back at Jace, the fear and panic inside her settling like a rock in her stomach. He just sat there, staring into the abyss, not moving, not really even breathing. "Jace, please. That's your son. Our son. He's taking away our son. Help me!"_

"_This is your fault," was all he said. "You ruined everything."_

_Clary let out an exasperated little scream and whipped back toward where her father had been, but now there was nothing. Only darkness, only emptiness._

"_Daddy!" she said. "Please don't! Please bring him back!"_

_Jace continued to repeat the same words over and over again. "You ruined everything. You ruined everything. You ruined everything."_

_Clary slid down to the cold, hard floor, the steel pulling against her skin and leaving slivers of metal embedded inside as she kept her hands around the bars. Her throat was tight from screaming and her face wet with tears. She was lost, empty, and trapped. Closing her eyes, she willed her father to come back and for Jace to shut up. She willed it, but it didn't happen. Instead, she felt the room start to spin, faster and faster, until she was sure she was going to throw up if it didn't stop soon. But it didn't stop, and neither did the high-pitched cries Clary had once thought were from a cat. She could hear them and knew he was crying for her, needing her, but she couldn't get out, couldn't get to him. _

_She finally let go of the bars and curled up onto the floor, her knees pulled to her chest and her arms holding them tight against her. She was alone, as alone as she'd ever felt, locked in that cell with the cries of her baby and Jace's repeated words echoing around in her mind. All she wanted was for Jace to reach over and hold her, to stop the overwhelming feeling of failure from flooding over her. But he couldn't, he wouldn't, because he was right. He was right about everything. She'd ruined them. She'd ruined them all._

.o.O.o.

"Clary."

Her name came from amongst the cries and Jace's words. It was little more than a shouted whisper.

"Clary. Wake up!"

Her body shook back and forth, slowly at first, and then more violently.

"Clary!"

She opened her eyes, and had to close them immediately when the brightness surrounding her stung. Jace's voice and the cries were gone, but there were other noises now. Muffled voices from downstairs seeped through the walls, and Isabelle's huff of annoyance came from right next to her.

"Thank God," Isabelle said. "I thought I was going to have to pour cold water over you or something."

"What? Why?" Clary yawned, and fought back a shiver as a strange, tight feeling squeezed her stomach.

"Because you were crying in your sleep and wouldn't wake up."

Clary opened her eyes once more, blinking against the harsh light coming from the window. "I was?" she asked, still not quite awake yet, and raised her hands to her face. Her cheeks were coated with wetness. "I don't—" And then it all came flooding back to her: the cries, the cell, her father, Jace. She shuddered once more and reached down to her stomach. It was still there, protruding out and hard, little flutters from within tickling her side. A relieved breath fell from her lips. "Sorry," she said. "Bad dream, I guess."

"Uh, duh" Isabelle said, as she gathered her hair up into a ponytail. "It's fine, except for the few blows to the thigh I took from you kicking."

"I kicked you?"

"Uh huh. Several times." Isabelle glanced at her friend. "You should consider coming to my martial arts classes with me. Or join the soccer team. You've got a decent kick."

Clary rolled her eyes and scooted to the side of the bed. "I don't think that's going to be happening anytime soon." She glanced down at her stomach. It looked bigger than it had the night before, but maybe that was because this morning it was covered in only a tight, white tank top and a pair of Isabelle's short running shorts. She sighed and scrubbed her hands over her face. The images and words from her dream kept circulating through her head, and try as she might, she could not seem to shake them.

"Want to talk about it?" Isabelle asked, settling next to Clary.

Clary turned her head toward her friend. "Talk about what?"

"Your dream."

Clary let out a slow breath. "Not particularly, no."

Isabelle raised a brow.

Clary stood, stretching her back and groaning when a few sore spots became apparent. "It's not a big deal, Iz. It was just a dream."

"It sounded like more than that."

"What do you mean?"

"You talk in your sleep, you know." Isabelle examined the chipped nail polish on one nail.

"No," Clary said, sitting back down on the bed. "What did I say?"

"Most of it was just a bunch of garbled mumbles, but what I did get was . . . disturbing." Isabelle's eyes flicked up to Clary's.

"What did I say?" Clary asked again.

"Something along the lines of, 'I ruined him.'"

Clary swallowed and looked down.

Isabelle dipped her head and met Clary's gaze. "Who do you think you ruined, Clare?"

"No one," Clary said, standing once more. "Like I said: It was just a dream."

"Clary . . ."

"What do you want me to say, Izzy?" She turned and lifted her hands at her sides, then let them fall. "That I don't still feel guilty? That I don't blame myself for all of this? Because that would be a lie."

"But—and I can't believe I'm going to spout this cliché crap—it takes two. You weren't there alone."

"I know," Clary said. "I know that. But I just . . . I wish I could stop what's happening now, what's happening with Jace. I wish I could stop my father, but I . . . I can't."

"How do you know?"

Clary snorted. "Iz, you know my father. He's an asshole. Even more so when it comes to the Waylands."

"Have you tried talking to him?" Clary opened her mouth to respond, but Isabelle held up her hand. "I don't mean yelling and screaming and crying. I mean actually sitting down and talking. Have you tried that?"

"It wouldn't make any difference. He's determined to do this. It wouldn't matter what I said."

"Maybe we should go try."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean," Isabelle stood and walked to her bedroom door, "that he's here. Downstairs. Waiting for you."

"What?" Clary's voice echoed off the walls.

"Yeah, probably should've opened with that, huh?"

"Iz," Clary thrust her hands into her hair. "I don't want to talk to him right here."

"Well, I don't think you have a choice. He's already threatened to come up here and drag you out of bed himself. Besides, if you talk here, you can use Mom and me as a buffer."

Clary shook her head. "You don't know how awful he can be about this. The things he said about . . . me and . . . Jace. I just . . . I don't want you to hear that."

"Clary." Isabelle squeezed Clary's hand. "I was there last night, I heard plenty. I don't give a crap what your dad says. I know you, and I know what you've been going through with all of this. And I know Jace enough to know that he's a good guy. What your dad says is going to say more about him than either of you. You have to know that."

Clary let out a slow breath and glanced at the door. There was a part of her that just wanted to get this over with, to get everything out into the open. She wanted her parents to know what she planned to do, and to tell them that they had no choice in the matter. But there was another part still that couldn't handle the venom her father was likely going to spew at her. There was only so much she could take, and she was nearing that limit. "Can't I just crawl out your window and scale the side of your house?"

"Um, no. No more climbing out windows. Remember, we talked about this."

"Crap," Clary said, biting the inside of her mouth and meeting Isabelle's gaze. "You promise you'll be there?"

"The whole time."

Clary exhaled once more. "Okay."

Isabelle tucked her arm around Clary's shoulders and led her out of the room and down the stairs, into the Lightwood's front sitting room. Clary's father and mother sat on the couch closest to the front door. Her mother stared into her own lap and her father's black eyes were fixed on the wall behind Isabelle's mother, who was situated across from him, his jaw clenched tight. When Clary and Isabelle hit the bottom step, it creaked and Clary's mother's head shot up, a look of relief flooding over her face.

"Clary," she said, her voice breathless, as she stood and crossed the room, enveloping Clary in an awkward hug.

Clary stood stiff and unresponsive in her mother's grasp.

Jocelyn pulled back and glanced down at her daughter, a small, soft smile on her face. She brushed her hand over Clary's cheek, causing Clary to stiffen more. But her mother didn't seem to notice, she just turned toward Isabelle's mother and said, "Thank you for allowing us to do this here, Maryse."

"It's no problem." Maryse waved the comment away. "We're happy to help in any way we can. Clary has been like a daughter to us for the last while, so we can understand how you feel."

Clary's father scoffed. "Oh, I doubt that."

"Valentine," Clary's mother admonished. "Please."

"What, Jocelyn? What?" He turned on Clary's mother. "How exactly can she understand, when her daughter is standing there perfectly fine and not knocked up? I'm not going to sit here and listen to this fake sympathetic bullshit, when I know what she's thinking is that she's glad it's not her daughter."

"Jesus, Valentine." Clary's mother lowered her face into her hands, and Clary's cheeks practically burst into flames. "I'm so sorry, Maryse. I don't know what—"

"There's no need to apologize. I realize this has to be extremely stressful. It's true that I don't know how it would feel to deal with this particular issue, but our family has had its share of things to deal with, both with my husband and I and our children. What I understand is how you might feel. How you might be angry and disappointed, and maybe even a little frightened. I can relate to that."

Clary's father looked up, his eyes so hard and unforgiving it was as if he were no longer a man, but only a monster. "Dealing with a child telling you he's gay is not the same as this. It's not as if your son made a choice and destroyed himself and his family with it."

"No," Maryse said. "But it took a lot of courage for him to decide to let himself be who he was." She glanced over at Clary. "I believe that's what your daughter is trying to do now." Her eyes shifted back to Clary's father. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a few things to take care of for work. Please feel free to stay as long as you like. Izzy?"

"Oh, I—" Isabelle looked from her mother to Clary, an expression of uncertainty creasing her brow.

Clary grabbed her friend's hand. "I asked her to stay."

Mrs. Lightwood nodded. "Okay, then. I'll be in the other room."

As she exited, Clary's mother thanked her again for the use of her home, her lips drawn into a tight line. Once Maryse was gone, Jocelyn whipped back around, her eyes narrowed and cheeks bright pink. "I can't even believe you, Valentine."

"What exactly can't you believe, Jocelyn? I'm just telling the truth."

"You insulted the woman in her own home!" She lifted a hand to her head and ran her fingers through her hair. "And then you have the audacity to insinuate that Clary decided for all this to happen? What the hell is wrong with you?"

He pointed in Clary's direction. "She made the decision to sleep with that boy, knowing full well who he was to our family. She decided not to use protection, and not to come to us so it could be taken care of sooner. That's not an insinuation, it's fact."

"God, Valentine. Of all the asinine things to say . . ."

"I didn't know who he was that night." Clary's eyes stung, but she held the tears back. "I had no idea he was a Wayland."

Her father's glare fell on her. "And that's supposed to make it better? The fact that you acted like a whore who will fall into bed with the first boy who shows interest in you without even knowing his name is better?"

"That's quite enough!" Jocelyn said.

"No, I don't think it is, Jocelyn." He stood and moved toward her, until their noses nearly touched. "She needs to be made aware that this is how people will see her. What do you think she's going to hear at school or when she walks down the street? People are going to take one look at her and say exactly what I just said, and worse. She needs to get used to hearing it. Even giving the child away won't stop this. She'll deal with this as long as she's in this town."

"Well, she doesn't need to deal with it from her own father!"

"Don't bother, Mom," Clary said. "He's right anyway."

"No. Clary, don't let him—"

"I meant he's right about what people will say. I'm not stupid. I know how kids my age are." She glanced at her father. "And I know how awful adults can be too. But I'm not going to let what they might say change my mind."

"Change your mind about what?" her mother asked.

Clary kept her eyes on her father, her stomach flipping and flopping relentlessly. "About what I'm going to do now."

Her father glared at her once more. "What you're going to do is exactly what I say." He glanced at his watch. "We still have time to make the appointment if we leave now. Get your things." He pushed through Clary and her mother and started toward the door.

"I'm not going," Clary said.

He stopped and looked back at her. "Excuse me?"

"I'm not going." She straightened her spine, trying her hardest to look stronger than she really felt. "And I'm not giving my baby up either. I'm keeping him."

Clary's mother started sobbing openly, and her father just stared, as if his eyes could burn holes through her. She could feel her legs start to tremble and her breath grow shallow as she waited, but she did her best to appear in control.

And then her father did the last thing she though he'd do. He laughed: loud, hard, and insistent. "No you're not."

"Yes, I am."

"You're not."

"This isn't your decision, Dad!"

Her father drew back as if she'd struck him. "The hell it's not! You're my daughter. My _underage_ daughter. You think you know everything, just like every other teenager in the world, but the fact is, you don't know anything. Not about what this is going to be like, what the future holds, or how the hell to be an adult, much less how to be a mother. So spare me with the whole 'this isn't your decision' bullshit, because you're a child, Clarissa. A reckless, thoughtless, irresponsible child, and until you're legally old enough to be otherwise, everything about you is my decision."

"Not this. This is my body. My child. My choice." She splayed her hand across her belly. "As my father there are a lot of things you get a say in: how late I get to stay out on a Friday night, where I go for summer vacation, whether or not I get my drivers license now or in a few years. But you don't get a say in this."

Clary's mother stepped between them. "Please, if we could just discuss this rationally—"

But her father had no interest in anything "rational."

"I most certainly get a say in who . . . or what . . ." his eyes lowered to Clary's stomach and then snapped back to her face, "resides in my home."

"He's not a _what_, he's a baby. A person."

"He's a Wayland."

Now it was Clary's turn to recoil. "So that's really it, isn't it? The reason you're doing this. It's not because this happened when I was still fifteen, like you tried to say about the charges you filed. It's not because you're so ashamed that your little girl got knocked up in high school. It's not because of anything but his last name." She blinked and several tears fell to her cheeks. "If this would have happened with someone else, anyone else, you wouldn't be doing this."

"Of course I—"

"No you wouldn't. This is all about Michael Wayland. It's _always _about Michael Wayland! But Jace is not Michael! He's not even Jace's real father!"

Isabelle made a choked sound from beside Clary, and Clary immediately realized what she'd revealed. But she couldn't worry about that right then.

"Do you honestly think that matters, Clarissa?" her father said. "Do you think it matters whose blood runs in that boy's veins? He is as much of a Wayland as anyone could be! He was raised by that man, taught to hate, and lie, and steal, just like Michael."

"You don't even know him!"

"I don't need to know him!" her father yelled. "I don't need to know anything about him to know that I can't let him or his child into our lives. I won't."

"Oh, Valentine," Clary's mother said, her eyes glistening with tears.

Clary's head felt as though it might explode from the pressure of her anger and frustration. Here she was, standing before the man who had raised her, the man who was, for all accounts, supposed to be her champion, but instead had turned into the one person who had the potential to hurt her the most. "But he . . . he's my child too. Your grandchild."

"You can have more children someday, Clarissa. When you're older and with someone who can take care of you. Someone more suitable. You don't have to saddle yourself with this," her father swept his hand toward her, "or with that boy. You can have better."

"I don't want 'better'."

"Whatever he's promised you, it's a lie. You don't know them like I do. You don't understand what they're capable of—"

"I don't care!" Clary cried, and the silence that followed filled the room like another presence. "God, when are you going to understand that I don't give a crap about who Jace's father is or how well you think you know him because of his last name? Yes, Michael raised him. Yes, his last name is Wayland, but that's not who he is." She closed her eyes and shook her head. "You have no idea who Jace is or what he says to me. All you have are these preconceived ideas about who you think Michael is, and I'm just . . . I'm just sick of being stuck in the middle of this stupid fight between you two." Clary opened her eyes and focused on her father's face. "When are you gonna see that this isn't about you or Michael or anything but me and Jace and this baby? And I . . . I'm scared, Dad. I'm so scared and I need you and Mom and Jonathan, but you just . . . you . . ."

Her mother stepped forward. "Clary—"

Clary held her hand out and moved away. She couldn't handle her mother right now. Not now. "No. Please." She shook her head and looked down at Isabelle, her friend's horrified face blurring behind the tears. "I'm sorry. I told you . . . I just . . ." She took a few more steps toward the door. "I just can't."

"Clarissa, if you walk out that door—"

"Why don't you love me, Dad?" she said, her heart slamming in her chest.

Her father stiffened and crossed his arms over his chest. "This has nothing to do with how I feel about you."

"Well, maybe it should."

She turned away, quickly slipped on her shoes, grabbed her jacket and bag, and exited out the door into the cold air. It slapped her in the face and covered her bare legs with gooseflesh. Clary had no idea where she was going, but she knew she couldn't stay there. Not with them. But even so, as she started down the walk toward her escape, her feet crunching through the ice-covered snow and tears freezing on her cheeks, she couldn't help but wish more than anything that one of her parents had cared enough to come after her.

.o.O.o.

Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen. Jace's body glided through the water, stroke after stroke, lap after lap, his limbs trembling and aching for rest. But he couldn't stop, not until his mind shut down enough to give him a reprieve from all the thoughts that had been bombarding him since the day before. He tilted his head to the side to breathe and water flooded his mouth. His hands touched the side of the pool, fingers curling over the curved edge and digging into the tile flooring.

Twenty.

He pulled himself up and drew in another breath, this one deeper.

Jesus, it was all still there. Every word, every thought, every feeling.

Jace turned and started to go for another lap, when fingers wrapped around his arm.

"Don't you think that's enough, man?" Sebastian asked, his breath ragged and water dripping over his face.

Jace pulled his arm from Sebastian's hold. "You can sit out if you can't keep up."

"That's not it. It's just . . ."

"It's just what?" Jace asked, his chest heaving just as hard as his friend's.

"Shit, Sunshine," Sebastian swiped a chunk of wet, dark hair away from his forehead. "It's only ten A.M. and you've been up for God knows how long, running God knows how many miles, and lifting God knows how many sets—and that's before I even got here. You need to take a breather before you drop dead."

Jace shook his head. "Not yet."

Not until it was gone. Not until he could breathe without his chest feeling like a piano had been dropped on it. He could still hear his fathers words, the voices of the three deans who'd called him to cancel his scholarships to that point, see the smug look on Valentine Morgenstern's face as Jace had been shoved into the back of the police car.

"Dude, come on. Enough is enough."

Sebastian was right. Jace had woken before dawn, after only a couple of hours of broken sleep. He'd run ten miles on the treadmill, worked his chest and arms with free weights until he could barely lift ten pounds, and then switched over to crunches. Usually this type of intense physical workout helped him to clear his thoughts, but nothing seemed to do the trick this morning. Not his body crying out for rest, not his best friend begging him to stop. He couldn't stop, not if he wanted to regain what little sanity he had left.

"Just a few more laps."

"Fine. It's your funeral." Sebastian climbed out of the pool. "I gotta go. My sister's got some stupid shit she needs help with this afternoon."

Jace shrugged. "Whatever."

His friend glared. "I don't know what the hell's eating you today, Wayland, but you're kind of being a dick. Did you have a fight with your girl or something?"

"Goodbye, Sebastian," Jace said, pushing away from the wall and diving back into the water once more.

He _was_ being a dick, but he didn't want to talk about it, any of it, with anyone right then. He didn't even have it in him to feel bad about pissing off his friend. He hadn't asked Sebastian to come over, he'd just shown up. Jace thought at first it was because he had heard about the night before. But he hadn't, he'd just been bored and looking to "work off his sexual repression because Izzy still wasn't putting out."

Like Jace wanted to know that shit.

All he wanted was to forget, and being alone while beating himself to exhaustion was his best bet.

The water was the perfect temperature and as smooth as glass as he cut through it. Back and forth, back and forth, his arms and legs burning with fatigue, but still, he pushed himself. The voices were still there; the words still stabbed into his soul and twisted like a blade to the heart.

He made it through seven more laps before his legs cramped and he had to stop.

"Damn it," he said, closing his eyes and leaning his forehead against the tiled side, breathing hard.

"I'd almost forgotten how hot it was to watch you train."

Jace's head snapped up at the voice. His eyes landed first on the spike-heeled boots, traveled up the plastered-on jeans to the too-short shirt, and ended on a face he never thought he'd have to see in his house again.

"What the hell are you doing here, Kaelie?"

"Well," she crossed to the bin containing the towels and pulled one out, making her way back over to where Jace clung to the edge of the pool," I thought maybe you could use a friend." She held the white towel out to him.

Jace laughed—not in amusement—and climbed from the pool, taking Kaelie's offering and rubbing it over his head. "Since when are we friends?"

"Oh, come on now. We were more than that for a long time."

"Just because we screwed doesn't mean we were friends." He draped the towel over his shoulders. "But thank you for bringing to my attention that I need to change the gate code to keep out unwanted pests."

She scowled. "You never used to be such an asshole."

"Yes I did, you just didn't give a shit because being with me gave you the status you wanted." He shrugged at the enraged look on her face. "It's true. We both know it was a relationship of convenience: you got the rep; I got the sex. Win, win for us both. Now, if you're not going to tell me why the hell you're really here, you can leave."

Kaelie narrowed her eyes. "I don't even know why I bother to care about you." Reaching behind her, she pulled a rolled up newspaper from the back of her jeans and spread it to the front page. "I'm assuming you haven't seen this."

Jace squinted at the headline and snatched the paper out of Kaelie's hands, his heart speeding. "Shit," he said, his legs barely making it to the chairs several feet away from the pool before they gave out beneath him. The plastic and fabric squeaked against his weight.

Kaelie sat beside him, her hand spread across his shoulder blade. "Jace?"

Jace couldn't answer. His voice was stuck in his throat as his eyes traveled over the bolded headline.

**LOCAL FOOTBALL PHENOMENON JACE WAYLAND ARRESTED ON CHARGES OF SEXUAL ASSAULT.**

And there it was, right out there for the entire world to see. His greatest regret, his largest shame. The part of his conscience that still had him unable to sleep, with doubts about how it all went down that night flashing in his mind. He hadn't been stupid enough to think no one would find out about what was happening, but . . . he didn't know what he'd expected. A little more time, maybe? All he knew was it hadn't been this.

He scanned the article, barely able to comprehend the words as all the sounds and images from the last few days beat him upside the head. Everything he'd worked to push back that morning came flooding forward with the force of a tidal wave. And now everyone, _everyone_—friends, neighbors, local business owners, teachers, coaches—would get to watch him navigate this bullshit terrain. For as long as he could remember, Jace had lived in the spotlight, reveled in it, really, but this was not something he wanted everyone to see. This wasn't him putting on a show, entertaining the masses because it was fun and profitable, this was his God-damn life.

His real, private, personal life.

Jace's chest tightened so much he could hardly breathe. He was aware of the things around him: his wet swimming trunks and the uncomfortable chair beneath him, Kaelie's voice murmuring things in his ear and her hand moving in small circles against his back. But it was if he was stuck in a dream or nightmare and he couldn't make sense of or react to anything. All he was sure of was that the life he'd worked for, the reputation he'd strived so hard to achieve, was over. It was all over.

He couldn't move anything anymore; his entire mind and body had gone numb. Fingers swiped across the hair on his forehead and then hands cupped his face, moving him. Moving him in a way he didn't want but that he didn't have the energy or focus to stop. More murmured words and puffs of breath slithered across his skin, and he didn't like it, didn't want it, but still, it continued, until those words and breaths and lips were on his: cool and wet and wrong.

The fingers curled around his jaw were wrong.

The nails lightly scratching his skin were wrong.

The taste of lipstick on his mouth was wrong.

The heavy weight in his stomach, the sickly sweet scent of perfume, the way his skin crawled with disgust: wrong. It was all so, so wrong.

Jace willed his body to respond, for his head to turn, for his hands to push her away, but none of them would listen, none of them would move. The only thing he could do was sit there while she assaulted his mouth, and the words bombarded his mind. And then he heard it: a small gasp and the sound of something dropping to the floor and spilling across the tiles. Kaelie pulled back and turned toward the sound, and as she did, one corner of her mouth lifted. Jace, finally able to move, glanced behind him and was struck by the brightest, angriest shade of green he'd ever seen.

.o.O.o.

Rage.

There was no other word to describe the heat that flashed over Clary's skin, the murderous venom sailing through her veins, and the violent pounding of her heart against her ribs. Hot, decaffeinated coffee soaked into the sides of her shoes, but she didn't move a muscle. Her hands fisted at her sides and her chest rose and fell in angry huffs. Her eyes did not deviate from the spectacle in front of her.

That bitch Kaelie sat in a lounge chair next to Jace, her body twisted toward his, hands on his face, nose only inches from his as she grinned, smug and assured, at Clary. Every muscle in Clary's body told her to turn and run. Her stomach rolled and bile rose in her throat. She couldn't believe he would do this. Why would he do this—

And then she let her gaze focus on Jace, on the unnatural posture he seemed to hold. He sat bone-straight, his body rigid and unforgiving, his hands clutched so tightly around the edges of a slightly damp newspaper that his knuckles had turned white. He hadn't moved a single inch since she'd come into the pool area, except to turn his face toward her. And what she saw there made her feel sicker than seeing Kaelie's stupid, fat lips plastered to his.

Nothing. She saw nothing. Not a spark, not a flicker of anything. The normally expressive, golden irises were clouded and dull. Empty of all life and feeling.

"What's going on?" she asked, knowing immediately that the question was stupid. Any idiot with half a brain could see what was going on.

Kaelie laughed. "What does it look like?"

Clary took a step forward, her gaze moving from Kaelie to Jace and back again. She couldn't get over the look on his face, the strain in his muscles, the dark shadows under his eyes. "What did you do to him?"

Kaelie dropped her hands. "Me?" She stood. "Maybe you should be asking yourself that question." Her hand brushed the wet curls hanging over Jace's forehead back, lovingly, caressingly.

The action made Clary's skin burn and her jaw clench. "Don't touch him."

"I'm not the one who shouldn't be touching him, bitch." She continued to run her fingers through Jace's hair, and he continued to sit there, frozen, his focus not even on Clary or Kaelie anymore but on the paper in his lap.

Anger washed over her, so fast and hot that Clary didn't even know what she was doing, when her feet pulled her forward and she was suddenly in front of Kaelie. "I said," she grabbed Kaelie's wrist and flung it away, "get your skanky hands off from him!"

"I don't think it's up to you whether or not I touch him."

"The hell it's not!" Clary shoved Kaelie in the chest, and she staggered back a few steps. "He's mine. You got it? Mine. And I'm telling you not to lay another finger on him."

Kaelie's eyes narrowed and her lips pursed into a cherry red pucker, her lipstick smeared a little over the corner. "Yeah, well, maybe he shouldn't be!" Clary drew in a sharp breath and Kaelie thrust a hand toward Jace. "Look at him! Look at what he's become. He was just fine when he was mine. Perfect, even. I never would have reduced him to this . . . this . . . pathetic thing. You've ruined him, you know. _Ruined him_."

Clary's dream came barreling back to her: Jace's voice, strange and dead, his eyes looking much the same as they did now, and his words, "you've ruined everything" swirling round and round and round in her mind.

She glanced down at him, swallowing hard against the lump crowding her throat. Jace still wasn't looking at any of them; his eyes were still focused on the newspaper, and it was then Clary finally saw what had gotten him so upset.

With a gasp, she snatched it out of his hands and read it more thoroughly. When she finished, her gaze flicked up to Kaelie's and she held the paper up. "Did you do this?"

"No," she said, superiority in her voice, "that would be you."

Clary let out a frustrated breath. The skank knew exactly what Clary had meant. "Did you bring this here? Did you show him this?"

"He had a right to know." Kaelie stood straighter, her head held high and her nose in the air.

"Right. And you just thought you should be the one to tell him? You, the girl who ratted out his warm-up routine to my brother, knowing damn well he was the last person you should tell. The girl who pressed a bar full of weights into his chest so hard he was bruised for weeks. Did you honestly think showing him this garbage would absolve you of all that? That you could weasel your way back into his life like this?"

"I'm not weaseling anywhere! I'm his friend. I've been his friend longer than you've even been in high school. And he's going to need his friends after the shit you put him through!"

"You're not his friend!" Clary seethed. "You knew this would upset him! What exactly were you hoping to gain? Did you think he'd want you back because you were oh-so-kind as to shove this in his face?" She shook the paper. "This is just pathetic, coming here and taking advantage of the situation when he's obviously distraught."

"Distraught?" Kaelie raised a brow. "What is this, a vocabulary lesson? Did you ever think maybe he'd welcome the distraction? That maybe he'd like to get back the life he had before you?"

"What the hell is wrong with you?"

"What's wrong with_ you_?" Kaelie said. "If it weren't for you, none of this would be happening in the first place! You couldn't keep your legs closed and now his name is being dragged through the mud, his reputation, his future. You're just a stupid little bitch who probably did all of this on purpose just to help your asshole of a father!"

She lifted her hand, and Clary could see it coming but was too surprised to stop it. She closed her eyes in anticipation of a strike that never came. Slowly she blinked open her lids and found Kaelie's fist just inches from her face, with Jace's fingers wrapped around her wrist.

Kaelie stared at him in surprise, and he rose from his seat, his eyes no longer clouded and dull, but sharp and angry. The intensity of it made Clary shiver.

"That's enough," he said.

"But," Kaelie sputtered, "this whole thing is all her fault, Jace! Don't you see? You don't need to keep playing this game. You can come back. I'll take you back and we can just forget all this—"

"I said, that's enough!" his jaw clenched and Kaelie recoiled. "I already told you I don't want you, Kaelie. How many times do I have to say it? Now get your shit and get the hell out of my house."

"But, Jace—"

"Now," he said, his fingers tightening on her wrist before throwing it away from him. "And don't bother coming back, ever. Lose my key code, lose my number. We're finished, Kaelie. We've been finished. I don't want your 'friendship'. I don't want you 'comforting' me. I don't even want you talking to me. Just leave."

Her eyes narrowed, any pretense of the sweet, caring friend she'd been (badly) trying to portray gone now. "God, you're such a dick. You used to be cool, so desirable, but now you're just some lame asshole. You know what? You want to stay with this little bitch? Maybe you deserve whatever shit they throw at you." She spun toward the exit and stomped away, her blonde hair flying behind her. When she reached the doors, she paused and turned back to them, a small smirk pulling at her lips. "I wonder if you've forgotten what my daddy does for a living. I bet he'd like the lowdown on how you've treated _me_ over the years." And with that, she pushed open the door hard enough for it to slam against the wall, and was gone.

Clary blinked in the wake of Kaelie's departure, and turned back to Jace. His face was devoid of color and his hands were shaking. "Jace," she said, reaching for his hands to calm them. "What does her father do?"

Jace swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat, and drew in a slow, shaky breath. "He's the DA."

.o.O.o.

Jace's legs were almost ready to give out by the time he reached the top of the stairs. He'd definitely overdone it this morning. Clary trailed behind, complaining the whole while about his "long-assed legs" and her "short stumpy" ones. The hallway outside his room was still littered with tiny shards of metal and glass from Jace's tantrum with his awards the night before. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Clary pause and gape wide-eyed inside his father's study, probably not having realized the extent to which Jace's temper could go.

His bedroom door was open, bed still unmade, and clothes from the night before scattered over the floor. He felt a twinge of OCD-ness about the mess, but he didn't have time for that right then. He needed to find it.

He tore through the contents on top of his dresser, then switched to his desk, flipping papers and tossing books aside. Where was it?

"Jace?" Clary hovered inside his bedroom doorframe, her hands clasped in front of her. "What are you doing?"

"I put it here last night." He spun around, his fingers grasping at his wet hair. "I just . . . I can't find it." He dropped down to the floor and starting searching through the pockets of his jeans and jacket, every place coming up empty. "Damn it!"

Clary lowered to her knees beside him and grabbed his hands in hers. "Jace." He tried to pull away but she held fast. "Jace, stop. Just stop. Look at me."

He did, and he could see the concern and fear in her eyes. He could also feel the trembling in her hands. "You're shaking," he said. "Why are you shaking?"

She bit her lip and shook her head. "That's not me."

Jace looked down, ready to dispute her claim, but realized she was right. It was him, and it wasn't just his hands; his entire body was trembling, as if he was freezing. "Oh," he said.

Clary slid her hands up his arms and held his face. "God, what's wrong? You were practically catatonic when I got here and now this? What's going on?"

"Nothing. I just worked out too hard. It'll pass."

She raised a brow. "We haven't made it a habit to hide stuff from each other before, let's not start now."

Jace sighed. "I'm just . . . tired. Tired and stressed. I'll be okay."

"And earlier? With Kaelie?"

Jace lowered his face, closed his eyes, and blew out a breath. "That . . . I . . . I don't know." Panic built in his chest over what she might have thought seeing Kaelie kiss him. His head snapped up and he widened his eyes. "But I didn't . . . I didn't want her to—"

"Shh," Clary said, placing two fingers over his mouth. "I'm not blind or stupid, you know. That girl's vapid. I can't believe you ever went out with her."

Jace grinned, and Clary frowned, rubbing her thumb over his lips.

"Stupid skank left her mark all over you." She scrubbed a little harder, and Jace watched as a tiny line of frustration formed between her brows. Her face was so close he could count the freckles dotted across her nose, make out the veins of darker green and brown that wove through her irises. "There," she said, pulling back. "All better."

Jace reached out and grabbed her face, bringing her back in and covering her mouth with his. Yes. This_ was_ better. Her lips: warm, moist, soft. Her scent: subtle and light. Her taste: perfection. There was nothing fake or made up about Clary, and there was nothing else Jace needed more right then than honest truth. He was tired of pretense, of appearance. All he wanted was reality, and Clary was as real as he was ever going to get.

Ending the kiss, he kept his eyes closed and rested his forehead against hers. Clary's hands circled his wrists and her soft breaths washed over his face. "I'm glad you're here," he said.

"Where else would I be?" Clary drew back and Jace opened his eyes. "What's going on, Jace? What's changed since last night?"

"Nothing," he said. "Everything."

Clary said nothing, but continued to look at him with expectation.

"A few of the deans I interviewed with called. They're withdrawing their scholarship offers."

"What? Why?"

Jace chewed on his lower lip and met her gaze. "Someone tipped them off about my 'legal trouble.' They have policies on their players' records."

Clary's breath was stuttered as she inhaled, and her eyes flashed. "My dad."

Jace shrugged and shook his head. "I don't know. They never said."

"God!" Clary pushed herself up off the floor and started to pace back and forth, her hands flailing as she talked. "Why is he doing this? Isn't what's happening bad enough?"

Jace grabbed her hips as she passed and pulled her down to sit on the edge of his bed, while he knelt in front of her. "Why do you seem so surprised? We expected this kind of reaction from him."

"No, we didn't. I didn't," she said, crossing her arms over her chest. "I expected him to be mad, but . . . he's my dad, Jace. He's not supposed to be like this."

"I'm sorry, baby." He tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. "I'm sorry he's not being the father you deserve. If I could beat the shit out of him to make him be that for you, I would, but somehow I don't see that helping the situation."

"It might help me feel better for a minute." She sniffed, and he smiled. "None of them are being the way I'd hoped. My dad, my mom, my brother . . . I just don't understand why they have to be like this, why they have to be so unsupportive."

"They're not all unsupportive."

Clary frowned and stared at him as if he had six heads. Jace sighed. He'd hoped he wouldn't have to be the one to tell her, but he supposed he would be. Taking her hands in his, he outlined all the things her family had done for him, for them, the night before. When he finished, Clary stared at him, unblinking, her mouth hanging open.

"My brother? Jonathan? The one who hates you? The one who planned to beat you up in order to take you out of a stupid football game a few months ago? Bailed you out of jail?"

Jace nodded.

"And my mom came here? Last night?"

Jace nodded again.

"What did she want?"

"She wanted to give me my father's business card."

Clary shook her head. "Wh—what? That doesn't make any sense. Why would she give you your own father's business card—"

"Not Michael," Jace said. "My—my real father."

Clary stared, still obviously not understanding.

"He's a lawyer. And I guess he said he wants to help."

Clary sucked in a breath. "Oh my God, Jace. Really? What are you going to do? Are you going to call him?"

"I don't know. That's what I was looking for, his card." He glanced around at the mess of his room once more and shook his head. "But I can't find it in this disaster."

"I—I can call my mom and get his number for you . . ." She eyed him uncertainly, and Jace could tell the thought of calling her mother was hard for her. "If you want."

Jace stared back at her, studying her face, unable to miss the spark of hope in her eyes. It seemed so far and few between that he got to see it. If calling his biological father was what it took to give her that, maybe he could do it.

Slowly, he nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, I want."

Clary flung herself forward and wrapped her arms around his neck. "Thank you," she said. "Thank you for fighting this. I know how hard this must be for you, so just . . . thank you." Turning her face in, she kissed the edge of his jaw and hugged him tighter. "I'll go call her." She jumped up from the bed and pulled her phone from her jacket pocket, leaving Jace kneeling on his bedroom floor while she stepped out into the hall.

Jace took a moment to breathe, and then pulled himself up, his legs still unsteady beneath him. He moved over to his dresser and gathered dry clothes, stripping out of his wet ones and replacing them with the new ones. Once finished, he stayed there at his dresser, his hands braced against the top and his eyes closed.

Jesus, was he really going to do this? Was he going to call and accept help from the first person who'd abandoned him? How could he do that? How could he let that man into his life, even for something like this? In some ways it felt like a betrayal to his mother, to them both. Stephen Herondale had left her, left him, walked out on them when she was pregnant. He'd divorced her and never acknowledged his own son. How could Jace do this to her? To himself?

"Jace?" Clary said from the doorway, her voice quiet and unsure. He glanced up. She held her cell phone in her hands, transferring it from one to the other. "I have it."

And right then, looking at Clary, seeing how much this meant to her, how much his fighting for this meant, he knew that was the reason why. She was his reason, his every reason.

Holding out his hand, he gestured for her to come. She crossed the threshold and stopped at his side, dropping her phone into his outstretched palm. It felt like a hot coal against his skin instead of a cool, plastic case. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her into him, lowering his face to the top of her head.

"I can't dial it," he said. "I know I said I want to, and I do want to do whatever I can, but . . . my mom . . . and I . . . I can't dial it."

Clary plucked the phone from him and replaced it with her hand, her fingers fitting into the spaces between his. The gesture was so small, but so perfect at the same time.

Looking up, she met his gaze once more. "I'll dial, you talk. We'll do it together."

Jace swallowed, nodded, and squeezed her hand a little tighter. "Okay."

Clary gave him a small smile, then glanced down at her phone, fingers flying over the keys as she dialed. Jace held his breath, his heart slamming hard against his ribs. He couldn't believe he was doing this, that he was accepting help from this man, that he was going against every natural thought, every feeling he had in regards to his biological father. But he was.

He was, and it was nearly killing him.

A moment later, Clary handed the phone back to him, her fingers brushing his skin as she laid it in his palm. "All done," she said.

Jace caught her eye and tightened his grip on her hand as he lifted the receiver to his ear. Her stare never faltered from his as he listened to the ring in the background. One, two, three, and then a click. Jace closed his eyes and held fast to Clary as a man's voice—a very familiar, very similar to his own, man's voice—answered,

"Stephen Herondale."

* * *

><p><em>A few things:<em>

_1.) The reason for Clary's dream was two-fold:_

_a.) Weird, vivid dreams are a symptom of pregnancy (I had them and some of them were just freaky!)—that's why this was so detailed (the feel of the carpet between her toes, etc)._

_b.) It was an outlet for all of the guilt and fears she is still feeling, even though she's not necessarily thinking about/expressing them in her waking hours. She still worries about "ruining" Jace, just as he still feels guilt over the fact that he "stole" her virginity and hurt her that night. It will probably take both of them a long, long time to get over that, if ever. And also, she is scared to death that her father will somehow manage to take the baby away. She's definitely a strong girl, but she still feels out of control and that her father will continue to control her life._

_2.) Valentine is the ultimate douche. Seriously._

_3.) Did you really think Kaelie was gone for good? She does not like losing what was "hers". No, I don't think she really cares about or loves Jace; he's a possession to her, and she is not used to not winning._

_4.) Yikes. Poor Jace. I can't imagine what it would be like to HAVE to get help from the one person in the world you never want to see/talk to (well, I guess I can since I'm writing it, but still…)_

_5.) I realize this seems like a cliffy, but it's not really... This conversation is not important (nor was it longer than setting up a meeting, really). Their meeting will be the important one. ;) And yes, we will see that.  
><em>

_Until next time, XOXO ~ddpjclaf_


	24. And That's Why

****The character names of The Mortal Instruments are owned by Cassandra Clare. The original content, ideas and intellectual property of this story are owned by ddpjclaf, 2011. Please do not copy, reproduce, or translate without express written permission.****

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Twenty-Four - "And That's Why" <strong>

_And . . . here we go. Back to school._

_This chapter is, at this point, unbetaed (except by me and my nifty text-to-speech feature, which is freaking HILARIOUS and shockingly helpful!)_

_Chapter songs:_

_**Empty – Trent Dabbs _

_**Where the Lonely Ones Roam – Digital Daggers_

_**Save You – Matthew Perryman Jones _

_**Run – Snow Patrol_

_**Between Us – Peter Bradley Adams_

* * *

><p>January brought with it some of the most intense cold Clary had ever felt in her life. It wasn't like normal, every day winter, where the worst of it elicited shivers and goosebumps, pink noses and white breath. This was more the kind that seeped deep into your bones and made the cold seem like it was coming from the inside out. The sort of frigidness that kept a person chilled for hours and remained no matter how much hot cocoa or soup was ingested. Even with the added heat from the pregnancy, that kept Clary up half the night tossing and turning and covered in sweat, she was still freezing as she stood outside the front entrance to her school.<p>

The unfamiliar fit of the long, black coat wrapped around her body, made her feel even more out of place. She'd officially outgrown her own about a week earlier, and since she wasn't speaking to her father, and her mother had had to leave for an art show out of state, she'd had to make due with whatever Isabelle had on hand. Unfortunately, it wasn't her style at all and she thought it made her look even fatter, which was a feat in and of itself.

Hurried footsteps crunched through the snow and ice as Clary's classmates shuffled toward the doors distractedly, opposing airs of dread and excitement being emitted at being back to school. Clary, unfortunately, counted herself as part of that first group. She did not want to be there, didn't feel like she belonged anymore.

With a sigh, Clary tucked her hands further into the pockets of her borrowed outerwear. To anyone walking by, the gesture would have looked as though she were simply cold and trying to warm her hands. No one would have suspected the action was more to pull the fabric away from her bulging belly, in an effort to hide for just a little bit longer. She didn't know why she bothered—it would be all anyone was going to see and talk about in mere minutes—but for whatever reason, she needed these last few seconds. These last moments to just be Clary. To not be that "girl who got knocked up in the tenth grade." Because that's all she would be to them after today.

For the last two weeks, she'd been fretting about this day. She wasn't disillusioned about how people would react. The words her father had used to describe her the last time she'd seen him on that day back in Isabelle's living room, were pretty much accurate. They would call her a whore; they would clear paths around her as if she were carrying a contagious disease instead of a human being. The funny thing was, most of those kids that would call her those things or act that way, were all having sex too. They just thought they were smarter about it. Who knew, maybe they were. Or maybe they were just lucky.

Clary drew in a breath and held it for several seconds, before expelling the air into her cold surroundings, a white cloud billowing up around her. No matter how long she stood there trying to muster the courage to take those few steps more, she could not make her feet move. Well, that wasn't exactly true. She was pretty certain if she turned in the opposite direction, she could get them to move—probably really quickly too.

"You ready?" Simon's out-of-breath voice came from behind her. He stopped at her side and glanced at the doors. Several more students rushed around them, turning to give them both dirty looks for standing right in the center of the walkway.

Clary stared ahead, everything in her screaming: NO!

She wasn't ready. She would probably never be ready.

More than anything, she wanted to go back to the beginning of winter break, when in the moments after Jace had hung up the phone with his biological father, they'd laid down together, arms, legs, and breaths entangled. Both too emotionally spent for anything more than sleep. They'd stayed there for hours, just holding one another in the silence. There'd been comfort inside those four walls, inside the cocoon of their arms, with just the two of them and their hurt and disappointment. Despite the epic destruction of their lives around them, right there, together, they'd felt nothing less than safe. Secure. And right now, Clary could use that again. She could use that safety, that security, that absence of anything and anyone else but them.

Clary's hand wrapped around the cool, plastic outer of the cell phone in her pocket, her fingers itching to pull it out and call him. Talking to him always made her feel better, calmer, and she needed that calm so badly she could almost taste it.

But no, she couldn't, not now. Jace had his own stuff to deal with that morning. Clary could just imagine what he was going through, how everyone would stare at him after all the news that had broken as of late.

Her grip loosened and her phone fell back into the deepest crevice of her coat.

_After school,_ she told herself, _you can talk to him after school_.

"Clary?" Simon's voice made her jump, and she closed her eyes. "You ready to go inside?"

She felt his hand brush hers and she jerked away, opening her lids and looking over to him, finally. His brow was creased, hurt lacing the dark eyes beneath his glasses.

"I'm sorry," she said, swallowing hard against the fear rising in her throat. "But you probably shouldn't touch me."

"Why?"

"Because I don't . . ." Clary brushed her hand over her stomach. "I don't want people thinking that this is because of you." She glanced up at him once more. "People know we . . . we dated before, and . . . I don't want your name being associated with any of this, Simon."

"Would that embarrass you? If people thought it was mine?"

"Of course it would."

"Wow. Ego burst—no—ego shatter."

"I didn't mean it like that," Clary said, swiping back several strands of hair that kept blowing into her eyes. "I just meant . . . he's not yours. And I would never want to let anyone else think he was. Not only would it be horrible for you, but also it would be disrespectful to Jace. I mean, look at all the stuff he's had to go through because of this . . . because he's taking responsibility for what we did. I couldn't let even the rumor of someone else being the father make light of that. Does that make sense?" Simon shrugged, and Clary sighed. "Besides, I've embarrassed and hurt enough people with this whole thing. I don't need to add you to it too."

"I'm not embarrassed to be seen with you, Clary. If I wasn't before, why would I be now? So you're a little chubbier, people can deal."

"You know," she said, trying hard to force back her smile, but failing, "the last thing a girl wants to hear about is how she's getting fat."

"Yeah, I know," he said, with a grin. "But it made you smile."

"You could always make me smile."

Simon shook his head and lowered his gaze to the ground. "Not lately, but I'd like to again. You deserve to be happy, Clary."

Her lips curled up once more at his words.

Simon looked over at her and swept his hand toward the door. "Shall we?"

A shiver ran down her spine. As much as she didn't want to do this, she knew there was no getting around it. Sooner or later, everyone was going to find out anyway—she just wished it could be later. Reaching down deep to the lowest wells in her body, she grabbed hold of the tiny sliver of courage she had stored there and started forward. But before she'd taken more than two steps, the front door slammed open, and a swirl of black, gold, and blue rushed out into the cold.

"There you are," Isabelle said, letting the door close behind her. "I've been waiting by your locker for ten minutes." Her eyes slipped to Simon. "Hey."

"Hey," he answered, his cheeks pinking even deeper than they had been from the cold.

"Sorry," Clary answered. "I'm just having a hard time throwing myself to the wolves this morning."

Isabelle rolled her eyes, but Clary could see the concern she tried to mask with the gesture. She knew her friend was just as anxious as she was this morning. It had been evident in the way she'd hovered around Clary before she'd left early for cheer practice, and also by the endless questions she'd spewed at every turn: "Do you have enough snacks for when you start feeling hungry?" "Are you sure you're not feeling sick?" "Do you want me to try to find a looser shirt?" And on, and on, and on, and on. Clary had had to finally shove Isabelle out the door in order to give herself a slight reprieve on the anxiousness before venturing out. Her friend meant well, but all she'd done was compound on the fears Clary was already trying to fight back.

"It's going to be all right," Isabelle said, as she came down the steps and looped her arm through Clary's, holding her tight to her side. "I'm not going to leave your side, and neither is Simon."

Clary felt Simon's arm graze hers, then slip around her back. "Nope. We're not going anywhere."

Tears pricked at Clary's eyes, and she blinked them back. "This is going to suck."

"Yeah," Simon said. "But only slightly more than school usually sucks. So there is that."

Clary shook her head and snorted. She'd never been so thankful for her friends than she was in that moment. "Okay. Let's do this."

They started forward. Clary's legs were unsteady beneath her, but she managed to make it up the stairs and across the several feet of concrete to the front of the door. When she stood there, facing the bright blue and gold entrance to the school, her stomach dropped and she froze.

God, she couldn't do this. She wasn't ready.

"Come on, Clary," Isabelle's voice, low and controlled, sounded in her ear. "We've got you." Her grip strengthened on Clary's arm, while Simon's tightened around her back.

"I can't," Clary said, her voice trembling. "I—I'm not ready."

Isabelle pulled her arm from Clary's and grasped her by the shoulders, turning her until their eyes met. "Yes, you can. You've handled everything up to this point with more courage than I think even I'd have been able to. You've dealt with being poked and prodded by doctors, and puking up everything you eat for months. You've lived through your parents finding out and your boyfriend being thrown in jail. You can handle a bunch of self-important teenage assholes who might say a few inappropriate and stupid things."

Clary closed her eyes and shook her head, but Isabelle grabbed her chin with one hand.

"Stop it," she said. "You've never cared what they thought before. Why do you care now?"

When Clary looked back at her friend, she saw that Isabelle really felt what she said. There was no reservation in her face, no deceit in her eyes.

"I know you can do this," Isabelle added.

She wasn't just saying this to help Clary get over this hurdle; she truly believed Clary was strong enough to do this. But she had no idea how it felt inside, the thoughts and fears and lack of confidence Clary had in herself. Yes, she'd handled all those things, but no one—no one but Jace—knew how much it had gutted her to do so. No one else understood how she felt like crying and dying each and every time. The fear and guilt and shame over this whole situation never left her, no matter how she looked and acted on the outside. It was always there, lurking and festering. Waiting for the perfect moment to boil over and consume her completely.

But she knew she had no choice; she had to do this, had to continue on with the life she'd made for herself. It didn't matter whether or not she felt strong enough, she had to fight through the doubt and make herself.

Jace was counting on her.

Her son was counting on her.

So with every bit of strength and courage she could find, she nodded and turned toward the door. Simon and Isabelle resumed their former stance, guiding her, holding her up as if she were unable to do it herself. And together, the three of them stepped over the threshold into the dusty smelling hall.

Other kids lined the corridor, some clustered in groups and others alone, pawing through their lockers or bags. Metal clanged against metal, and laughter and shouts echoed off the walls. Clary swallowed hard and shoved her hands farther down into her pockets. No one seemed to pay them any attention as they made their way through the horde and toward the section of sophomore lockers. They came to Simon's first and he flashed a reluctant look at Clary.

She nodded. "I'll be all right." Though the words sounded hollow to her ears.

He gazed at her for a moment, his eyes appraising and unsure, but after a few seconds, the uncertainty receded. "Okay. I'll just be a minute then."

Isabelle tugged at Clary's arm, and the two of them continued down the hall, until they reached the last section of lockers. This part of the hall was packed with jocks and cheerleaders, all seemingly congregated around Izzy and Clary's lockers, with the express purpose of making this first reveal suck even worse than it needed to. Isabelle shoved through the group and loosened her hold on Clary's arm to shrug off her coat and bag and shove them into her locker. Clary stood in front of hers, her breath coming in short bursts and her hands curled into fists in her pockets. The chatter of her classmates swirled around her, bombarding her senses with their idle gossip and simple lives. Clary's mind flitted back to Jace's room, to his arms around her and his voice in her ear. To the feeling of safety and contentment they both seemed to be able to offer each other. She wished he were with her so much in that moment.

Clary glanced to her side. No one seemed to be paying a bit of attention to her.

The warning bell dinged overhead. She was out of time.

Slowly, she twisted the combination on her locker until it opened with a click. Her bag felt like it weighed a hundred pounds as she slipped it from her shoulder and hung it on the hook inside. Blood rushed from every point in her body to her face, as she lifted her trembling hands and carefully, slowly, pushed the buttons of her coat through the slits. The fabric parted and the small swell of her stomach poked through the opening. She closed her eyes and inhaled a calming breath.

There was no hiding this anymore. She knew it.

And within seconds, everyone else would know it too.

Keeping her lids clenched tight, she let the coat fall from her shoulders, the cool air of the drafty hallway washing over the bare skin of her forearms and through the thin fabric covering her belly. It took only seconds for some of the relentless talking around her to cease. Little by little, awkward silence engulfed the area immediately surrounding her, and even though her eyes were closed, she could feel the stares roaming over her form, penetrating, lingering. The hiss of whispered voices began at her sides and filtered through the crowd behind, making her flesh crawl with goosebumps.

A hand stretched across the top of her upper back, making Clary startle and forcing her eyes open. Isabelle stood at her side, her dark gaze glued to Clary's. There was nothing but calm confidence in her stare, and as much as Clary wanted to turn around and leave the way she'd come, she knew she couldn't. This was her life. This was the path she had to travel now. Her breath shuddered as it passed her lips, and she reached up to hang her coat and grab her books for her first class.

Isabelle looped her arm through Clary's, and together, the two girls turned to face the crowd. Eyes were everywhere, staring, judging, boring into Clary as if she were a circus freak. She could feel their gazes slithering over her like snakes. Her first instinct was to cover herself with her books, but she knew it would do no good. It was time to face this, time to move forward and get on with her life, no matter what judgment and disgust awaited. If Jace could handle the things people had been saying about him for weeks, she could handle a few stares. So, even though her face burned with shame and embarrassment, she held her head high, as she and Isabelle pushed their way through. The whispers and giggles bombarded her, and she tried her hardest to ignore them, but some of them penetrated her protective shell.

Isabelle held her tighter, and several taps tickled her on the inside. And right then, in the midst of her worst nightmare, she felt a sliver of peace, because no matter how alone she felt most of the time, in that moment, she wasn't.

.o.O.o.

"Come in and take a seat, Mr. Wayland."

Jace paused in the doorway to the school counselor's office, his bag slung over his shoulder and baseball cap curled in his hand. He had been on his way to fifth period, when he'd been summoned to the short, balding man's office. The counselor gestured to the chairs situated in front of his cheap metal desk, and Jace crossed the threshold, closing the door behind him. He took a seat and immediately felt his back protest to the uncomfortable hardness.

He'd been waiting for this moment, knowing it would be inevitable, considering the lovely greeting he'd had this morning. The stares and snickers and loudly whispered jabs had been expected, and he'd ignored them the best he could—although it might have been worth a suspension to smash his fist into a few of those assholes' faces. But they weren't even the worst of it. That moment came when he'd walked up to the usual crowd surrounding his section of lockers, and he'd had to force his way through. Never before had that happened. In the past he'd been like Moses' staff, parting the Red Sea. People automatically moved to let him through, as if he were royalty. But today, no one moved. People just stared at him as if he were some sort of freak of nature on display at the zoo.

It took him several minutes to push his way through the crowd, and when he did, he wished he hadn't. Jace was used to his locker being decorated by cheerleaders on game days, with sparkly little pom-poms and block letters spelling out his name, number, and pep-filled phrases like "Go Team" or "Win". But this time the block letters didn't spell out words meant to pump him up; they spelled out the word _Pervert_. Instead of the pom-poms he'd grown accustomed to, there were magazine cut-out photos of little girls, ages ranging from about five to twelve years old, taped to every inch of his locker.

His hand tightened around the strap of his bag, as snickers floated on the air around him. He wanted to rip each of those letters and photos off, crumple them up, and throw them back at the shitfaced losers behind him, then start an all out fist war with each of their faces.

But he didn't.

He would not let them see him weak. He would not let them see that their actions affected him at all.

So, calmly, he opened his locker, and when he did, several pairs of little girls' underwear, covered in flowers and ladybugs, fell out at his feet. He swallowed back the bile climbing his throat and grabbed his books, shutting his locker with just as much calm as he'd opened it. It wasn't until he turned to leave that he'd spotted Kaelie at the edge of the crowd, a pair of scissors and a roll of tape in her hand. She didn't even try to hide it. She just smiled and winked at him, before turning and disappearing into the throng.

Every class period after that, he'd found another present waiting for him at his desk—usually some sort of little girl's toy or another pair of underwear. And every time, Jace walked calmly to the front of the room—even though his guts were twisted up inside—smiled at the teacher who stared at him with the same wide eyes his classmates did, and tossed the "present" in the trash.

"So, Mr. Wayland." The counselor sat across from him, his hands clasped together on top of a disorganized pile of folders on his desk. His beady eyes stared at Jace through the thick glasses perched on his nose, and Jace couldn't help but wonder how in the hell this man got the job of school counselor. Weren't they supposed to be comforting or some shit? This guy did not exude any sort of comforting vibes at all. "I'm sure you're aware of why I asked you here."

Jace draped his arm over the top of the chair beside him. "Not really. Have I done something I'm not aware of?"

The counselor pursed his lips. "As you know, we're all mindful of your . . . legal predicament."

Jace fidgeted in his seat. "I'm not supposed to talk about that."

That wasn't a lie. Even though he'd yet to meet with Stephen Herondale in person, he had advised Jace over the phone to not discuss the case, or his pending charges, with anyone.

"That's not why I asked you in here."

Funny. Jace didn't recall being _asked_ at all.

"Not exactly, anyway."

Jace raised a brow. "Okay, then why _exactly_ am I here?"

This time the counselor looked uncomfortable. Shit. This did not bode well.

"Well, Mr. Wayland, it's our job as school administrators to make sure all students here feel safe and secure in order to give them the best possible environment in which to learn. I fear that because of the circumstances, this may prove difficult."

And then it hit Jace. He knew exactly why he'd been called down there. "Look," he said, straightening up and running his hand through his hair. "I can deal with the stares and locker sh—er, stuff. It'll blow over sooner or later. It's really not a big deal."

The counselor cleared his throat. "Oh, well, that's . . . good. I'm glad to see you aren't so affected." He paused. "But that's not the problem."

"It's not?" Jace raised a brow, and a swirl of anxiety twisted in his stomach. "Then what is?"

The man shifted uncomfortably in his seat and blew out a loud breath. "There's just no easy way to say this, so I'm just going to say it. We have some . . . concerns."

"Okay." Jace frowned. "About what?"

"Well, we've had a few of your female classmates express some worry about you being able to attend classes with them."

Jace felt as though someone had kicked him in the gut. All the air in his body gushed out in one fell swoop. "What? Who?"

"I'm afraid I can't divulge that information, but I can say their discomfort was notable enough for me to contact their parents to take them home." His stare bored into Jace. "The parents were in agreement with their daughters."

"In a agreement to what?"

"That perhaps, for the time being, you don't attend school with the regular student body."

Jace's face heated with rage and he stood, his bag thudding to the ground. "This is bullshit," he said, not caring in the least that he'd just cursed in front of a school official. "It's my right, and the law, for me to be here. I'm a senior with only a few months left. You can't keep me from finishing school because of a few misguided girls. I have never, not _once_, touched a girl without her permission, and I wouldn't ever."

"I believe you, but many do not understand the difference between what you're accused of, and forcing yourself on someone. I'm sorry, but these are the facts."

"Jesus Christ, this is _bullshit_," Jace repeated, grabbing a fistful of his hair.

"I agree that it is." The counselor stood and held out his hands, palm out. "And we're not suggesting you not finish school, we're just going to recommend you utilize our tutoring program instead of attending classes. You would still get all of your credits and graduate on time. This is just a way to maintain the peace and safety for _all_ students. You included."

Jace dropped his hand from his hair and stared at the man. "Okay, I get that this is your job, and that you have to bow down to the pretentious assholes in this district, but don't give me shit about this being about anything to do with protecting me. No one is protecting me, because in the eyes of everyone in this town, I'm the predator. I'm not deserving of sympathy, understanding, or protection. So can we please just cut the shit and call this what it is? You're blackballing me."

"All right, Jace. All right."

The use of his first name jolted Jace for a moment. When he regained his composure, he asked, "Can you make me go to tutoring instead of coming to school?"

"I'm not sure what you—"

"Can you force me to go?"

The counselor stared hard at Jace for several of the longest seconds of Jace's life, before shaking his head. "No, as you said, coming to school is your right. Unless you've done something on school grounds to warrant suspension or expulsion, you are always welcome here. Tutoring is just a _strong_ recommendation." The counselor leaned across his desk. "Can you honestly tell me this is easy for you here? I've heard about what's been happening today. People can be unforgiving and cruel. This—what's happened with your classmates—is only the beginning."

Jace nodded and bent to pick up his bag. "I can handle it." Thrusting it over his shoulder, he started toward the door, but before he reached it, he turned and added, "As for your _strong_ _recommendation_, I'm not interested. I plan to be here every damn day until graduation."

And with those words, Jace spun back around and exited the counselor's office, but not before he caught the slight smile curl at the corners of the man's mouth and the bright gleam that twinkled in his eyes.

Jace's footsteps sounded loud in the empty hall, and his chest ached with the realization that not a single part of his life was going to be unaffected by all of this. In the beginning, it had been all about football, about how he might not be able to play exactly where he wanted. But now, it was so much more than that. Football was the least of his worries—he may not get the chance to ever play in a competitive fashion ever again. And that should have gutted him, but at this point, it was barely a blip on his radar. There were so many more things for him to worry about now.

Jace readjusted the strap of his backpack onto his shoulder and turned the corner, stopping abruptly before running smack into someone else. He blinked as ice-blue eyes met his. A shock of anger rippled through him, but he managed to hold it in.

Kaelie glanced up at him, and he expected to see the smug look he'd gotten that morning, but what he saw wasn't smug at all. It was pained. Kaelie straightened up, and the pained look slipped out of her eyes, leaving them blank and uncaring. A look Jace was getting used to.

"Leaving?" Kaelie asked, one brow inching toward her hairline.

Jace mimicked her expression. "That would make it easier on you, wouldn't it?"

"I could care less what you do, Jace."

"Oh yeah? Your display this morning said differently."

"I don't know what you mean." She blinked innocuously, like she could ever pull that off.

Jace had to grin. "You never played innocent well, Kaelie." He moved around her, but paused before making his way back to class. "And no, I'm not leaving. You can do what you want—stuff my locker with as many pairs of underwear and training bras as you can, get your little stuck up bitch friends to fake "uncomfortableness" to get me in trouble at school—but you're not going to bully me out of here just so you don't have to face me every day. We broke up, I moved on. I don't know why you have to resort to this jealous ex bullshit, but it doesn't make you look as superior as you think it does. It just makes you look petty and vindictive. For your own sake, get over it." Jace turned then and started down the hall.

"What does she have that I don't?" her voice came, quiet and unsteady.

Jace paused and glanced back over his shoulder. Kaelie faced him now, her eyes no longer blank but filled with the regret and pain he'd glimpsed earlier. Tears glistened along her bottom lids, and when she blinked, they fell over her cheeks. She hastily reached up and wiped them away. Always the tough girl.

"Why does she get all of you, when I only got pieces?" She crossed her arms over her chest. "I gave you two years. Two. _Years. _I gave you the space you asked for, didn't say a thing about what or who you did in the months we were on breaks. But you still never felt about me what you feel for her. Why? What makes her so damn special?"

Jace turned and lifted his hands, then let them drop soundlessly to his thighs. "I don't have an answer for you, she just is."

"I would have given you anything."

"It wouldn't have mattered. I wasn't in love with you, Kaelie."

Her eyes widened. "And you are with her?"

Jace stared at her for several seconds, taking in the face he thought he'd known so well, and realized he'd never really known, or cared to know, her at all. It was never anything like how he felt when he looked at Clary. He'd never had that pang in his chest, the twist in his stomach, the aching in his fingertips to just graze her skin. He'd never needed her so much he felt like he was going to explode. Kaelie had never been that to him. She'd just been a body to kiss and touch and screw when he felt the urge. He'd never cared about what she felt. He'd never realized she felt anything at all. "Yeah. Yeah, I am."

Kaelie's jaw tensed, and then she let out a breathy laugh, her head shaking slowly from side to side. When her eyes met his once more, he saw that despite the wetness surrounding them, that she'd allowed the uncaringness to cloud them again. "I hope she's worth it then. I hope she's worth losing everything else."

"She is."

She shook her head once more and turned on her heel, soft hiccups reaching Jace's ears as she walked away. Jace stared after her, his body feeling heavy and dead tired. Something grew inside of him. He didn't know what it was, exactly, but it felt a lot like regret. As much as their relationship hadn't meant a lot to him, in this moment, it was obvious that it meant something to her.

"Kae," Jace called out, using the name he had when they'd first gotten together years ago.

Kaelie froze but did not turn toward him. Her shoulders shook with restraint and the quiet sobs he'd heard leave her when she'd started away. He'd hurt her with his cavalier attitude toward their relationship. He saw that now. She may have been a bitch for much of the time they'd been together, but he'd been a dick too. He hadn't cared about her, and he'd used her for the better part of two years.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm sorry for being such an asshole. You didn't deserve that and I'm just . . . I'm just sorry."

She didn't answer, didn't make even a sound, but just before she started away again, Jace saw the tightness in her muscles give. That would have to be good enough, because he was pretty sure he wasn't getting any more. And why should he? He didn't deserve it in the least.

A soft buzz vibrated against his leg and tore his stare away from Kaelie's retreating form. Jace thrust his hand inside his pocket, fishing out his phone and looking down at the display. His heart jumped at the name and message displayed on the front. Jesus, how much more could this day shit on him?

_**Back in town. Can we meet to discuss the case? Today? 3:30ish? ~S.H.**_

Jace closed his eyes and drew in a breath.

This was it. The moment he'd been dreading since the first time he'd heard Stephen Herondale's voice. It was one thing to talk on the phone, to converse with the man who'd given him up. Jace could somewhat distance himself then, could convince himself he wasn't actually betraying his morals and his mother by just talking to the man. But seeing him . . . sitting across from him and staring into eyes that may or may not be identical to his own, was quite another.

But he had no other choice. None of the family lawyers were interested in upsetting Jace's father by taking on a case Michael Wayland didn't support. And none of the others in town wanted their name attached to him either. It was Stephen or no one.

So, with another breath, Jace opened his eyes and typed out his answer with shaking fingers.

_Yes._

.o.O.o.

"Crap," Isabelle muttered as she pawed through her bag, clumps of dark hair falling into her face. She blew out hard against one strand, but only managed to move it for half a second before it flopped back into the same place it had occupied before. "Where are they?"

Clary paused on the top step, outside the entrance to the school, beside her friend. A gust of wind pushed past her and she wrapped her arms around her abdomen in an effort to stay warm. It wasn't as frigid as it had been that morning, but it was cold enough. The majority of the school's student body sidled past, but Clary made sure not to make eye contact with anyone. "Did you lose your keys again?"

"No! I put them in here, I'm sure I did." Isabelle kept searching, while muttering several choice curse words into her bag. "Arg!" Her head popped up and she snapped her bag shut. "I must have dropped them in my locker. Wait here while I go see, okay?"

Clary's chest clenched at the thought of standing out there by herself, while the whole school walked by. She'd been good about holding her head up during the day, ignoring the whispered snickers that followed her everywhere she went. But no one had said a thing directly to her all day, which was most likely due to Isabelle's presence at her side between each and every class. Clary knew no one was brave enough to withstand Isabelle's wrath, and it was probably a little cowardly to hide behind her friend, but at this point, she didn't care. Just being there with everyone's stares was enough for one day. Maybe tomorrow she'd be stronger. Maybe tomorrow she'd be brave.

"Sure." Clary shrugged, trying her best to hide the panic flooding through her.

Isabelle paused. "You can come with. I just thought maybe less walking would be better, especially considering that weird nerve spasm thingy."

Izzy was referring to the very strange and very annoying pain that had started a few days earlier that randomly shot from Clary's lower back, down her butt cheek, and to her upper thigh, usually making her leg give out beneath her. When called, Dr. Penhallow had assured Clary it was nothing to be concerned about—sciatica—and would go away once the baby was born. Awesome. Only another five months to worry about falling down for no reason in front of people. Yay.

Clary waved her friend away. "It's fine. I'll just go wait by the car."

"You sure?"

"Yep. I'm sure."

"Okay." Isabelle held up two gloved fingers. "Two minutes."

Clary watched her friend jog back through the large metal doors, her black hair trailing like a cape behind her. She turned, keeping her eyes on her feet, and started down the cement steps toward the parking lot. She still felt eyes boring into her skin, and the whispers ringing in her ear, as they were all day. But still she continued to ignore it, until several pairs of legs blocked her path to Isabelle's car. Slowly, she glanced up, her eyes following blue and gold all the way to Maia Roberts' dark eyes. Clary's heart sped against her ribs. Maia, along with a few other cheerleaders and football players stood in front of her, their gazes glued to her, face's blank and cold. She could feel the shift to "outsider" and it stung more than she thought it would.

These used to be her people. The ones she'd hung out with and spent most of her time around. She'd never been particularly fond of Maia, but she'd liked many of the others. Some of the players had even been friends with her brother.

"Well, well, well," Maia said, leading the group over to where Clary stood alone at the edge of the lot. "If it isn't Southeast's mommy-to-be."

Snickers tittered all around her, and Clary felt her face burn. She tucked her hands into her coat pockets instinctively.

Maia glanced around in an exaggerated, obvious way. "Where's your bodyguard? Did you give her the night off or something? Probably a good idea. Wouldn't want her slacking on the job tomorrow."

Clary rolled her eyes and tried to push her way around the group, when a hand enclosed her upper arm. She looked down at it, spied Maia's unkempt nails, and met her gaze.

"Oh, don't be like that, Clary. It was just a joke. You're gonna have to learn to take one, walking around like that." Her eyes darted to Clary's belly then back to her face. A sly half-smile pulled at her mouth.

Clary snatched her arm away. "What do you want, Maia?" She noticed the others in Maia's group looking down, to the side, up at the sky, anywhere but directly at Clary.

"I thought that'd be rather obvious," Maia said. "We're curious about how this," she gestured in the vicinity of Clary's stomach, "happened."

Clary glared. "We took health class together last year, I was sure you would have figured out how babies are made all on your own."

"No," Maia narrowed her eyes. "I meant how did it happen to _you_? It's not like you even have a boyfriend, or any boy interested in you besides that loser Simon. And I'm highly suspicious even he could get it up for you. So, come on, tell us who it was? Who was so desperate to get laid that he'd get himself in trouble with you?" She tilted her head to the side, an evil glint sparking in her eye. "Or was it you? Did you bribe him with something? Get him drunk? What? We're dying to know."

"I'd have done you without getting drunk, Clary." A dark-haired boy with a pockmarked face Clary barely knew said from the back of the horde. "All you had to do was ask." The boy next to him laughed and gave him a fist bump.

Maia rolled her eyes. "That's because you're heinous and can't get anything else, Clark."

The boy didn't respond, and Clary felt her eyes sting.

_No,_ she thought. _Please don't cry. Not here. Not in front of them. _

Behind her, she was vaguely aware of the crunch of tires on snow-covered pavement, an engine cutting off, and footsteps moving in her direction. She spun toward the sound, closing her eyes on instinct and feeling hot tears slide over her cold cheeks. _God. No more. Please, no more. _When she opened them, her breath caught in her throat, because what she was seeing could not have been real. He shouldn't have been there.

But he was.

Jace walked toward her, his hands stuffed in his pockets, his blond hair covered by a backwards cap, only the ends that curled up behind his ears visible, and his brows drawn together in confused fury. Clary blinked a few times, sending a few more tears cascading down her face. He looked real; he seemed real, from the flash of angry gold in his eyes, to the splash of pink coloring his cheeks, to the puffs of white expelled with every breath. Her fingers tingled to reach out and touch him, but they didn't move. She just stood there, stock still, waiting as he covered those last few inches to her. And then he was there, the scent of him swirling around her, the warmth of him encompassing her, and for the first time that day, she felt comfortably and totally okay.

She looked up at him, her gaze traveling over his tense jaw and beautiful mouth, pausing at the fuller upper lip she knew from the ultrasound photo matched their son's, and finally stopped at his eyes. "Hi," she breathed.

The hardness in his stare melted away as it dropped to hers. His forehead smoothed and he was looking at her like he always looked at her: soft, careful, as if she were something delicate and breakable. "Hi." Jace reached up and swiped his thumb over her cheek, the pad of it glistening with her forgotten tears. "What's going on?" He glanced back up, the protectiveness returning to his stare, and his arm snaking around her back, pulling her into him.

"Holy shit," one of the guys—not Crater Face—uttered.

And then another, "Do you know who that is?"

Jace's name echoed around the group with several other expletives and exclamations. Clary turned back to them, taking in the wide, confused eyes and open mouths. Of course the guys would know who he was, they'd been playing ball against him for years. But it was Maia's face Clary was most drawn to. Her expression wasn't surprised, it was angry.

"You've got to be kidding me," she said. "_This_ is who knocked you up? _Him?_"

Clary couldn't get over the way Maia looked at Jace, at how her once brown irises seemed to spark fire.

"Hello to you too, Maia," Jace said, his fingers digging into Clary's hip, almost jealously.

Clary frowned. How did he know her— Oh. Oh, God. Had they . . .? She looked up at Jace, the question spinning round and round in her mind. He caught her eyes, realization dawning in his, and he shook his head.

"Hell no," he said. "Never."

Clary's shoulders relaxed, and Maia looked between the two of them, her brows furrowed in confusion. And then they shot up into her hairline.

"Jesus. No. God, that's disgusting. I would _never_ do him. It's bad enough that my cousin was infatuated with him for two years." Maia shuddered and glanced pointedly at Clary. "I hope you've been tested, because there's no telling what—or who—he's gotten into."

"Four words," Jace said, holding four fingers and ticking the words off on them as he spoke. "Ellis. Park. Portable. Toilet."

Maia's face turned the brightest shade of red Clary had ever seen. She wanted to ask Jace what he'd meant, but more than anything she wanted to get out of there. Clary didn't know why Jace had come, but at that point she didn't care. She was tired of being there, tired of all the stares, tired of everyone talking about her and whispering her name behind her back. She removed her hand from her pocket and placed it over the one Jace had stationed on her hip.

"Jace," she said, pulling him back from the crowd.

He started to turn toward her, when one of the guys in Maia's crowd did one of those lame "cough insult" things, saying what sounded a lot like "cradle robber." Jace's body lurched faster than Clary imagined it could, and she just barely kept hold of his arm as he started toward the group, his body tense, strained.

"Say it again to my face, dickhead," he said.

"Jace, please." Clary tightened her hold on his wrist, tugging as hard as she could, but not budging him an inch. "Please don't."

His body was still rigid, unforgiving.

The pockmarked boy stepped forward, his face fixed into an ugly sneer. "Yeah, Jace, don't," he mimicked Clary's plea. "You wouldn't want to add anything else to your problems right now, would you? I'm not sure coming here and starting a fight will look so good for your case."

"Oh, that's right," Maia said, her face breaking into an amused, almost clown-like smile. "You are in a bit of trouble, aren't you? I'd completely forgotten about that . . ." she trailed off as her eyes did another perusal of Clary's body. "Funnily, it all makes sense now. You know, Clary, I didn't think you had it in you. I knew you were playing that whole "rebellious teen" game with dear old daddy, but I never thought you'd go so far as to sleep with the enemy."

"Shut up, Maia," Clary said.

"Or what?" Maia placed her hands on her hips and narrowed her eyes. "What are you going to do about it? Doesn't seem like you can do much in the condition you're in. Wouldn't want to endanger your _precious cargo_."

"You're coming very close to a line you don't want to cross, Maia," Jace said, his voice low, dangerous. The sound made a chill skip down Clary's spine. What did he have on her?

Maia's eyes flashed, almost as if she were willing to risk crossing whatever this invisible line was, just to spite Jace. But in the last second, her jaw tensed and she stayed silent.

The four other guys in the group came forward, all standing behind Crater Face and Maia, looking for all the world like they would enjoy it way too much if Jace took a swing. Jace stood before them, not as big or as tall as some, but seeming so large and confident, it nearly took Clary's breath away. He was an avenging angel, squared off with a pack of rabid hellhounds, all for hers and his honor. As sexy as that was, and how much she would love to see him take these guys out, she needed him in one piece more.

"Jace," Clary whispered, her nails digging into his shaking arm, hoping he sensed what she wanted more from that than her trembling voice. "This isn't worth it. Come on."

Jace's stance loosened and he dropped back a step, until he was next to her. She did not retire her grip, just in case he decided to lunge again.

"That's a good boy," Crater Face said. "Better listen to Mommy so you don't get into more trouble." He laughed and the rest of the group joined in, Maia included.

Jace lifted his free hand and pointed at the boy's face. "Laugh now, assface, because when this is all over, I will remember you, and I'll be back. And when I am, I'll make sure you not only remember my face and name, but my fist too."

"I'll look forward to it, Wayland. But don't expect to leave with that famous shoulder intact—not that you need it anymore anyway."

Jace tensed again, but not so much that Clary couldn't tug him back. He followed somewhat grudgingly, but came all the same. Once they were out of earshot from Maia and her cronies and within a few feet of Jace's car, Clary finally turned to him, taking in the slight flare of his nostrils, the strained tendons of his neck, and the deep flush that traveled up his throat, spilled across his cheeks, and seeped into the tips of his ears. He was angry and embarrassed, more so than Clary had ever seen him, as his entire being trembled with it.

"Jace," Clary said again, softly this time. But he didn't turn. He continued to glare, his body still on edge and ready to fight. "Look at me."

Finally, he turned away from the crowd. When his eyes met hers, the flames of his anger still raged, and Clary had to think this was about much more than what had just occurred. She reached up and tucked a stray piece of his hair back into his cap and around the curve of his ear. He closed his eyes for a moment and sighed at her touch. The redness in his face dulled, and he peered at her once more, his irises still alight and flashing harsh gold fire.

She said, "What are you doing here?"

"Are you not happy to see me?" He smiled, but it was forced.

"I'm always happy to see you, but I wasn't expecting to yet. Is something wrong?"

Jace let out a breath and looked down at the ground. "What isn't?" he mumbled.

"Jace?"

He glanced back up and the feral gleam to his eyes dulled. And with the most broken, shamed expression, he said, "Stephen called. He wants to meet, and I don't want . . ." His eyes darted back and forth between hers, and in that look there was nothing but honesty, nothing but simple, unabashed truth. "I don't want to go alone."

Clary blinked. "Oh."

"I'm sorry," Jace said, lowering his head and shaking it slowly. "I know I shouldn't have come. I shouldn't have . . . I know you've got enough shit going on here, but God, this day sucked ass and I just . . . I just . . . needed to see you, needed you."

Clary's throat ached. She laid her palm across his hot cheek and thought about just how good those words sounded and how much she'd needed him too. "Why would you apologize for that?"

"Because I really _shouldn't_ be here. This is hard enough without adding all of my shit to your shit, but I just—"

"Stop." Clary touched her fingers to his mouth. "Tell me what you need."

He reached up and took her hand away from his face, brushing the back of it against his mouth, and then breathed out a slow, deep breath. "I need you to come with me. Will you please come?"

"You know you don't even have to ask."

"I never assume you'll do what I want just because I want you to." His gaze flitted down and then back up, until he was peeking at her from under thick lashes. "I'll always ask, Clary."

His words meant so much in that moment, especially considering how much "telling" and "assuming" had been going on in her life recently. Leaning forward, she raised herself up on her toes, pressed a hand to his chest, and kissed him lightly, carefully, on the corner of his mouth. "And that's why I'll always come." She lowered herself back down and took his hand in hers. "You ready?"

He shook his head no, but said in a whisper, "Yes."

Clary squeezed his fingers, still in awe that this boy, this big, strong, brave boy, needed her—or anyone—for anything, and led him slowly to his car.

.o.O.o.

Even though he was pretty sure he'd never been to the small, off-the-main-drag diner Stephen had suggested they meet at, Jace felt a strange tingling sense of déjà vu when he stood in front of it. The feeling made him pause, pull Clary tightly to his side, and study the place with scrutiny.

From the looks of it, it could have been any of those shitty restaurants where, in the movies, lost travelers stopped for directions and were never seen or heard from again. The front seemed to consist entirely of dingy, scratched-up glass that hadn't seen a wash job in decades. The rickety, wooden overhang, made from untreated lumber that was splintered and cracked and now the color of gray death instead of honey gold, creaked and groaned and gave Jace the distinct impression that it wouldn't take much wind to bring it down on their heads.

Nothing about the place seemed inviting, yet the parking lot was full and the muted conversations and laughter from inside filtered out through the thin panes of glass.

"You okay?" Clary asked, tightening her grip on his fingers.

"Yeah. Just . . . gimme a second."

Jace felt Clary shift in her spot, but she said nothing else. He continued to look at the place, studying every detail, trying to figure out what it was about it that seemed so familiar. It was definitely not a place his father would have taken him, and he would have remembered if he'd come with his mother—those memories were solid, cemented in his mind forever. But still, he could not shake that sense of _knowing_ that filled every part of him.

Finally, after several more moments and even more calming breaths, he tugged Clary's hand just slightly and started forward. "Come on."

Clary came along beside him, not trailing behind or leading, but _with_ him. A small bell tinkled over the door as he pushed it open, and he was smacked in the face immediately with warm air, laced with the smell of grease and fresh-baked apple pie. His eyes widened as he looked around, the inside looking nothing like he thought it might, judging from the outside. Other than the old, dirty windows, the place was very clean and had that old sort of charm to it. The floors were original (though scuffed up) hardwood, and the small tables that covered the floor looked hand crafted and covered in red table cloths. Along the back wall were booths with large curved red backs that reminded Jace of the Tilt-a-Whirl rides at the fair. Waitresses of all ages moved around, each wearing a one-piece skirted uniform, with a small white apron on the front.

Everyone there was smiling. Everyone was laughing. But Jace could not smile or laugh, when he had this burning recognition he did not understand. His gaze darted over the space to the black and white photos that lined the walls. Some looked to be from quite a long time ago, and others were more recent. He let his eyes skip lazily from one to the next, until they caught up on one. His stomach clenched so hard he grunted out loud.

"What's wrong?" Clary asked.

But Jace didn't answer. He moved toward the photo, toward the growing sense of _knowing_ that was becoming stronger and stronger by the moment. And when he stopped in front of the small, five by seven framed picture, the _knowing_ exploded inside of him and he finally _knew_. He knew why this place seemed so familiar, even though he'd never been there before.

He'd seen photos like this in his mother's scrapbooks, of her and her friends, laughing, screwing around, being teenagers. In these booths. In this place.

But he had never seen this particular picture before.

It was not unlike the rest hanging to its sides—taken inside the diner itself, with it's telltale curved booths and charming handcrafted tables in the background—but what Jace saw inside that picture, made his heart beat faster and his lungs struggle to keep up with his breaths.

Leaning across the table inside one of the booths, was a couple: a woman with shoulder-length, wavy, dark hair and sparkling light eyes—eyes Jace knew were the same color as his own—and across the table from her, his hand outstretched and cupping her cheek, was a boy with Jace's own face.

He couldn't think.

He couldn't breathe.

These were his parents. His real parents. His mother and his biological father, together, smiling, looking at each other the way he knew he looked at Clary and she looked at him. And for some reason, that fact killed him.

For so long he'd convinced himself that his father left them because he didn't love them, that he didn't love her. But it was clear here, at least then, that he did. His eyes, the smile on his face, the way his hand formed perfectly to her face, said it all. Stephen Herondale had loved Jace's mother, as much as Jace loved the girl beside him.

Clary didn't say a word as they stood there, eyes glued to the memory of a past Jace didn't know. One he pretended for so long didn't really exist. Clary drew her hand from his and tucked her arm around his waist instead, leaning her head against his shoulder as if they were looking at a sunset instead of this. He didn't understand the emotions warring inside him, the ones that longed for something he'd never had, and the ones that wanted to push it all back and continue hating the man who'd helped create him.

"I thought I was seeing a ghost from my past when you walked in," a shaky, elderly voice said from behind them.

Jace spun around, bringing Clary with him, to face the woman standing just a few feet away. Her wrinkled face was kind, and there was a sort of sad smile pulling at her lips. There was something oddly familiar about her too, not like he'd seen her or even a picture of her before, but something about _her_, her face, her smile, _something_ that was as recognizable as his own.

She clasped her hands in front of her and shook her head, and he could have sworn he saw her eyes glisten with tears. "You look just like him."

Jace opened his mouth to speak, when a throat cleared from several feet to his left.

"Now, now, Nana, what did I say about that?" said a man's voice. One Jace was well familiar with by now.

He closed his eyes and swallowed, turning his head in the direction the voice had come from, and opened his lids once more.

Stephen Herondale stood near the front doors, his body covered in a dark suit and his darker-than-Jace's-but-still-light hair, brushed neatly to the side. He held a briefcase in his hands, his white knuckles giving away how tightly he clutched it. And his face—Jesus, his face—held the same nervous, but determined expression Jace was sure his own wore. It was like looking into a mirror twenty years from now. And even though Jace had seen Stephen Herondale before, he'd never really looked at him, never really let himself see.

Stephen walked across the room, the old floor squeaking beneath his expensive dress shoes, stopping only when he got to where the old woman stood. He leaned down to kiss her cheek and then glanced at Jace, uncertainty filling his eyes and clouding the blue color that seemed very bright even in the dim light. He straightened back up and held out his hand. Jace's grip tightened on Clary's waist and hers tightened on his, but not in a nervous way, in an encouraging way.

But Jace didn't know if he could touch him.

Stephen's hand shook just slightly as he awaited Jace's response, and he cleared his throat. "Hello, Jace. I've been waiting so long to meet you."

And Jace couldn't. _He couldn't. _Not today. Maybe not ever.

Turning to Clary, determined to tell her he wanted to go, that he couldn't do this, he met her worried gaze. Her green eyes were so large with concern, it nearly brought him to his knees.

Clary reached up and wrapped her hand around his upper arm, her fingers digging lightly into his flesh, and he could feel her willing him forward. Everything inside of him was fighting against this, against allowing this man into his life, allowing him to save his ass and having to be indebted to him for as long as he lived.

He did not want to be. More than going to jail, more than almost anything else.

Anything else but Clary. Anything else but his son.

Jace swallowed hard, his throat aching with the movement. Clary squeezed his bicep softly and nodded her head once. And in her gestures, in her eyes, he could see she needed him to do this. She needed him to be brave.

And so, with every ounce of determination he could muster, Jace turned toward the man who'd abandoned him, held out a hand so similar to the one outstretched toward him, and said with a surprisingly clear voice, "Hello."

* * *

><p><em>Don't kill me, or you won't get the rest! :P So, lots going on in our lovers' lives. People really suck, don't they? :(<em>

_Thank you everyone who is reading and reviewing. I appreciate you all so much, and I read every word you send._

_Until next time, xoxo ~ddpjclaf_


	25. Safe and Sound

**Chapter Twenty-Five - "Safe and Sound"**

I _adore_ this chapter. Especially the end.

This is unbeta'd, so all mistakes are mine.

_Chapter songs:_

_**Barely Breathing - Duncan Sheik_

_**Fix You – Coldplay_

_**Safe & Sound – Taylor Swift ft. The Civil Wars (listen to this w/the last scene. Seriously. It makes it soooooooo much better.)_

* * *

><p><em> Vulnerability is the ultimate weakness, and weakness is the surest way to guarantee destruction. Real men do not allow vulnerability or weakness to taint them. We allow only strength, only confidence. Everything else is to be buried beneath and denied.<em>

Jace could hear his father's voice replaying that philosophy over and over inside his mind, as if his father were sitting right there in the booth. Jace had made it a point as of late to effectively ignore each and every shitty piece of "logic" Michael Wayland had ever given him on the ways to be a man. But this one piece, this one lesson, would not let him go. And Jace really wasn't sure he wanted it to. Especially considering he was sitting across from the one person in the entire world that he did not want to let see that side of him.

He needed to remain stoic, strong, calm. He didn't want to show any sign of what really lay beneath the exterior: a scared, sad, lonely little boy who would always crave, yet didn't want to want, the love of the man before him. So he straightened his back and tightened his jaw, holding—with every ounce of strength he had in him—all those broken pieces of himself inside.

Stephen Herondale rifled through his briefcase, pulling out several folders and a large hardback journal of sorts. Jace fought with his own body to keep his face and movements neutral, but despite all his efforts to appear unaffected, his damn leg would not stop bobbing beneath the table.

"Okay," Stephen paused before his open briefcase for a moment, then closed it carefully, snapping the latch and pushing it aside, "this should be everything." His fingers tapped the top of the pile.

Jace's gaze locked on the long digits, and he swallowed thickly at the familiarity of them, quickly dragging his own beneath the table. He spread his damp palms across his thighs and wiped them against his denim-clad legs. His grip tightened on his moving knee, willing it to stop.

_No vulnerability. No weakness. Stop noticing your own features in him. Stop noticing him at all._

But his leg would not stop its incessant shaking.

Damn it, Jace just wanted to go. No matter how cowardly it was, he wanted to take Clary and run away, leaving behind the smell of grease and cinnamon apples, and this whole damn situation. And he especially wanted to not be near his biological father. Just looking at him, being in the same room, breathing the same air as him, made Jace remember all the things he'd wondered about since he was young enough to realize his real father was not there.

So many questions, so many hurts and doubts and feelings all coiled up inside of him and ready to burst.

Jace couldn't take them all rolling around in his head. The questions he had he knew did not come attached to simple answers. How could they? He knew from his own experience that choosing whether or not to be a father to a child was possibly the hardest decision a teenage guy like himself could make. He couldn't imagine it being any different for anyone else—Stephen Herondale included. But maybe it was. Maybe Stephen didn't feel that sense of responsibility, that guilt that gnawed away at his soul every time he thought about his child and the woman he'd left to deal with all that shit alone. Maybe other guys really were huge assholes like they were depicted on television.

Jace dug harder into his flesh, trying his damnedest to stop the relentless fidgeting and thoughts, when soft, warm skin moved over his. Glancing over, he met Clary's gaze, and let out a shaky breath when her fingers squeezed his. She knew he was losing it. She always knew how to read him.

"Most of these are just forms giving me permission to legally represent you." Stephen's voice broke into Jace's thoughts and drew his attention forward. "You'll need to sign them all before we can discuss more than the basics of your case."

Jace reached across the table and drew the forms toward him with only his fingertips. Glancing down, he realized he had no idea what any of this shit meant. It was all legal jargon that made no sense at all to anyone who wasn't a lawyer.

Stephen must have recognized the confusion on Jace's face because he said, "I know it looks like a lot of hoopla just to say I'm your lawyer, but I promise that's all it is."

Clary scooted a little closer to Jace, her hand moving from on top of his to under it, and she slipped her fingers between his. Jace licked his lips and chewed lightly on the bottom one, as he reached for the pen Stephen had placed in the center of the table. He heard Stephen's breath hitch and looked up in confusion. Stephen's eyes were glued on Jace's hand.

"You're left handed."

Jace's gaze flicked down to his own hand and swallowed. "Yeah."

"My father was—"

Jace stiffened.

Stephen shook his head and blinked, his Adam's apple bobbing as he struggled to maintain a neutral face. "Never mind," he said, looking up and smiling a forced, unnatural smile.

It took Jace a moment to tear his eyes away. He felt as if he'd been struck, his skin stinging and flaming hot, his heart thudding hard in his chest. He didn't want to have his familial similarities pointed out to him. It was hard enough to hold it together knowing whom this man really was, he didn't need it pointed out to him. Clary squeezed his hand once more, and it was all he needed to snap back to the task of scrawling his name across the lines at the bottom of the pages. When he was done, a wave of nausea passed over him and he pushed the papers back across the table. He didn't dare look up, didn't dare catch Stephen's gaze, and instead studied the scratches and mustard stains on the Formica tabletop.

Stephen gathered the stack and placed them into his briefcase, before clearing his throat and speaking once more. "All right now, I'm not sure how much you've researched on the laws pertaining to statutory rape in this state, but though the guidelines seem pretty straightforward, there are actually several loop holes we might exploit."

Jace finally met Stephen's gaze. "Like?"

"Well, maybe we should discuss what the law actually says before we get into that."

Jace nodded.

"First of all, yes, Mr. Morgenstern has grounds to file these charges against you." His eyes drifted to Clary and she shrunk back into the booth. This time Jace squeezed her hand. "Clary was under the legal age of consent at the time. Even if she said yes to any sexual contact, according to the law, she is not allowed that right." Clary huffed, and Stephen shook his head. "I know it seems ludicrous—that any law can say when you can consent to sex—but it really is there to protect minors."

"But Jace was a minor too," Clary said, her voice and expression flustered.

Stephen held his hand up for a moment. "If that is the case—"

"What do you mean 'if'?" This time, her voice was challenging.

"Clary—" Jace said.

"No, Jace." Clary turned to him, her brows pinched together and her eyes angry. "You didn't turn eighteen until the next day! You were a minor too." She turned back to Stephen. "He was still a minor."

"I'm not disputing that fact, Clary, but the prosecutor will."

Clary sat back with a hard thump against the back of the booth and let out a huff.

"We have to be prepared for the question to come up," Stephen continued. "The fact that it was a matter of hours between the start of the party and Jace's eighteenth birthday—"

"But, I mean, technically, he wouldn't be eighteen until the exact time he was born on the seventeenth." Clary's words were desperate and somewhat hopeful. "Can't you argue—."

"I was born at twelve o' three A.M.," Jace said, his voice low, quiet, as he turned to Clary, watching as the sliver of hope in her eyes melted into the green abyss surrounding it. "So that really won't matter."

"You can understand how difficult this is going to be. You can bet Morgenstern's lawyers will be all over us to _prove_ without a doubt that the act happened before midnight. Before twelve o' three A.M."

Jace ran a hand through his hair. "How can we do that? We don't _remember_ it. I don't know what time it was. Even if we did remember, it's not like I would have been looking for a clock."

"Then you'll need to find someone who does remember."

Clary snorted. "It's not like there was someone in the bathroom with us at the time."

"There has to be someone who saw you leave, or saw you go into or come out of the bathroom. People remember all sorts of trivial details when asked to recall them later. Somehow our brains retain that insignificant stuff, and we need to find someone who has in this instance. It's imperative we nail down the time as closely as we can."

"Why?" Jace asked. "What difference is it going to make? It's not going to prove me innocent or guilty. There's nothing I can do to prove that since I _am_ guilty." He gestured to Clary's protruding stomach. "All the proof they need of that is right here."

"Jace . . ." Clary said.

Stephen met Jace's gaze, his hard and determined. "I'm not trying to prove you innocent. I'm trying to keep you out of jail." He leaned forward in the booth, his elbows resting on top. "If we can supply proof that you were still a minor, the sentence is far less. As an adult you're looking at one to three years in jail, then two years probation. As a juvenile, it's one year probation and no jail time. That's it. If we can find someone to corroborate that this all happened before your eighteenth birthday, then we can avoid a trial."

Clary let out a little cry and tightened her grip on Jace's hand. Jace couldn't breathe.

"And what if I—" Jace's voice cracked. He cleared his throat and started again. "What if I can't find anyone?"

Stephen sighed and sat back into his seat. "Then we go to trial."

Jace scrubbed his hands over his face and whispered, "Shit."

"A trial isn't necessarily bad," Stephen said. "But it's risky. The burden of proof is on them, and they may have just as difficult a time proving you were eighteen as we will have proving you weren't. But we don't want to take that chance if we don't have to. I'm sure you're aware that Valentine Morgenstern is a very influential figure in this town, and we'd be hard-pressed to receive a fair trial."

"What about a change in venue?" Clary asked. Stephen looked at her in surprise, and Jace lifted one brow in her direction. She blushed. "What? That's what they always say on those law shows on T.V. when they don't feel like they could get an impartial jury."

Jace blinked, and Clary turned even redder.

"Shut up," she said, elbowing him in the side.

He couldn't help himself and tucked his arm around her shoulders, pulling her into him and kissing her temple. "I love you so damn much," he whispered.

She looked up at him and smiled, her cheeks so red she looked feverish.

"A change in venue is an option," Stephen said. "But avoiding a trial all together will be the safest bet."

"Pie?" said a jovial voice to Jace's right.

He jumped slightly and turned toward it, seeing the woman who'd greeted him at his arrival standing next to the booth, the smile on her worn face stretching the width of it, and three pie plates in her hands.

"Sure, Nana. Thanks," Stephen said, clearing away the remaining papers to allow her to set the plates down.

"Oh, good. This is piping hot. Fresh out of the oven." She bent over and placed a steaming piece of pie in front of each of them. Normally Jace would have dug right in, but today the sight and smell of the sweet concoction turned his stomach. The woman turned to Jace and settled her kind eyes on him. "Would you like some milk with that, dear? Stephen always insists on milk with his."

"Nana," Stephen scolded, his cheeks tingeing pink. "Please."

The woman straightened up and looked abashed. "I apologize. I didn't mean to . . ."

Jace looked at Stephen and then back at the woman, watching the exchange go on between them. "It's all right. And no thank you, ma'am."

Clary expressed her thanks and she and Stephen started eating the pie in earnest. Jace just stared at his. Stephen discussed a few more elements to the case at hand, but most of it went over Jace's head. He tried to listen, to pay attention and absorb everything he possibly could, but he couldn't concentrate. His brain was on overload with everything they had already discussed, and the fact that he was there at all. He'd known this wasn't going to be easy, but he'd never imagined it to be this hard.

Jace had always hated Stephen Herondale. Hated him with everything in him. But the man before him was not the monster Jace had conjured in his mind. He didn't look at Jace as if he didn't exist, as if he couldn't give two shits about him. He actually looked at him in the exact opposite way. And that fact disturbed Jace more than if he did look at him in the way he'd expected. He was used to vacant, uncaring expressions leveled his way—he'd gotten them for years from his adoptive father. But the way Stephen Herondale looked at him, as if it physically hurt, as if he'd found something he'd long ago lost, as if he couldn't believe Jace was sitting there in front of him too, as if he were sorry.

But he didn't want Stephen to look at him that way. He didn't deserve to. Jace couldn't bear it. The man didn't want him. He'd turned his back on him and his mother before Jace was even born. He didn't get to look at him that way.

A feeling of regret swept over him. _This was a mistake_, he thought. He should never have agreed to allowing Stephen Herondale into his life, even for this.

"Mmmm," Clary moaned, completely oblivious to the torment wracking Jace's conscience. "I honestly think that was the best apple pie I've ever had."

Stephen chuckled, shoving another bite into his mouth. "Nana's won the pie baking contest at the county fair for the past eleven years with this recipe. People come from all over just to have a piece." He leaned forward and whispered, "But don't make a fuss about it around her or else she'll be sending you home with a half dozen of them."

"I wouldn't mind," Clary said, smiling. "Not that I need the extra weight."

What the hell was this shit? Jace stared at the both of them, at their easy conversation, at the way Clary smiled and Stephen smiled back. She wasn't supposed to smile at him. She wasn't supposed to like him. She was supposed to be on Jace's side, and talking to _him_, smiling at _him_, was not what Jace would call being on his side.

Clary turned to Jace, a question poised on her lips, but when her gaze moved over his face, the light faded from her eyes and the question disappeared into the ether.

Jace couldn't help it, couldn't help the anger and resentment simmering at the surface. He felt . . . betrayed.

Clary looked rightly embarrassed. "Are you going to eat that?" she asked, quietly, and pointed to the pie in front of him.

Without moving his eyes from her, Jace pushed the pie toward her. She met his stare and squeezed his hand under the table, and Jace could read it all there. _I'm sorry,_ they said. The muscles in Jace's shoulders started to loosen, until he heard Stephen chuckle once more, completely unconscious of the silent argument happening on the opposite side of the table.

"You remind me so much of my wife, Amatis, Clary. She craved Nana's pie like nobody's business when she was pregnant with Samuel."

Jace's heart stopped, and Clary froze.

Stephen, suddenly aware of what he'd just said, looked up cautiously, his mouth opening as if to say something.

But Jace shook his head, not wanting to hear another word. He couldn't speak, couldn't think. Had Stephen just said . . . Was he saying Jace had . . . Suddenly, the room around him felt as though the heat had risen to a thousand degrees. Jace felt the sweat beading on his forehead, the dryness of his throat, the clenching of his chest. His leg bounced even faster and his stomach twisted so hard he was afraid he might vomit right there.

"Jace?" Clary said, her brows creased and eyes concerned. Her fork clamored to the plate that contained Jace's half-eaten piece of pie, and lifted her hands to his face. "Jace, are you—"

Jace shot up out of his seat, his knees banging the table and knocking over the nearly empty glasses of water on top. Other patrons turned to see what caused all the racket, and Jace could only imagine what they thought when they spied his ridged, quaking form. But he didn't care. He couldn't take it anymore; he had to get out of there. "I have to go." He looked down at Clary. "Now. I—I have to go."

And without another thought or word, he allowed his shaky legs to pull him toward the door. All the sounds around him blurred into one loud buzz and lights flashed before his eyes, though he did think he heard his name amongst the cacophony in his mind. He could feel the anger and resentment building to a crescendo inside of him; the way his nails dug into his palms was evidence of its power.

He reached the front of the diner and pushed against the glass doors. Cold air engulfed him as he stepped outside, and his breath caught in the frigidity. Jace took a few steps forward and nearly fell from the weakness in his knees.

Stephen had a son. Another son.

He'd left Jace and his mother alone because he couldn't handle being a father, and now . . . now he was. To someone else. Jace had spent his entire life being raised by a woman who was so depressed she ultimately took her own life, and then was left to live with a man who resented his existence, while his real father started a new life. A new wife. A new son.

Jace clenched his fists harder and squeezed his eyes tight. The pain in his palm was nothing compared to the ones in his chest and stomach. And he was pissed that he was upset at all. He didn't want to care. He shouldn't care.

The door behind him swung open and a waft of warm air hit Jace's back.

"Jace . . ." Stephen's voice called out.

Jace bit back a groan.

"I'm so sorry. I didn't mean for you to find out about Sammy that way. I—"

Jace held up a hand. "Don't. I don't care," he said.

"Please." Jace felt Stephen's hand cup his shoulder, and he jerked away.

"Stop." He spun to face Stephen, his heart speeding as if he were in a race. "Why are you doing this?"

Stephen looked confused. "I just want to explain—"

"No, not _this_," Jace gestured between them. "This. All of this. Why are you doing this? What do you want from me?"

Stephen paused, his mouth open. "Nothing. I just want to help you."

"Why?"

"Why? What do you mean 'why?'"

"What do you think I mean? No one in this city wanted to help me. Why do you? And I don't want a bullshit answer. I want a real one. The truth."

Stephen swallowed visibly. "Because you're my son."

Jace choked out a laugh and shook his head, looking out into the parking lot. "No, I'm not. You already have a son."

"Jace, please—" Stephen reached out for him once more, but Jace jerked his arm away before Stephen's fingers connected.

"No!" He stepped back a few paces, glaring at Stephen. "No. You don't get to do this. You don't get to come back after eighteen years and say that. I am NOT your son." Jace's body shook with his anger, and no matter how hard he tried he couldn't get it to stop. "You may have contributed some genetic material, but you're not my father. You don't get to call yourself that. You don't get to call _me_ that."

"Okay. Okay." Stephen held up his hands in defeat. "I understand. I really do. I guess I'd just hoped . . ." He ran his hand through his hair, a gesture Jace knew well and made him even more angry that he shared it with this man. "I've made so many mistakes, Jace. So many. I was such a selfish, arrogant, fool, and I just—"

The door to the diner opened once more, and Clary stepped out onto the snowy walk, her eyes wider and more frightened than Jace had ever seen them. She took one look at Jace, and her features changed, morphed into something more, something protective. She stepped between the two men and faced Jace. "Let's go," she said, her voice nearly begging. "Let's just go."

"I'm sorry," Stephen said. "I'm so sorry."

"Jace, please. Let's go," Clary said.

But Jace's eyes were glued to Stephen's. His body vibrated and was so tense it ached, but there was one more thing he had to say. One more thing he had to make clear. "You're my lawyer. Only my lawyer. That's what I need you to be. If this is going to work, that's all you can be."

Stephen nodded, his blue eyes pained. "I understand."

"I don't think you do," Jace said. "I'm not the boy you fathered right now. I can't be him. I don't want to hear about your wife or your real son. I don't want to hear about your parents or grandparents, or how I might have some trait in common with them. I _can't be that boy. _I can't. All I can be is Jace Wayland. Your client. That's it. Okay? And all I want from you is for you to make it possible for me to be the father to my son that you never were to me. Can you understand that?"

"Yes," Stephen said, his gaze intent, though still sorrowful. "I can."

Jace stared at him for a few more seconds, seconds that felt like an eternity, then turned quickly and made his way across the lot to where he'd parked his car. He pulled his keys from his pocket, but his hands were shaking so badly he couldn't get it into the lock.

"Shit," he said to himself, stabbing at the door once more, the key slipping and scratching a bit of paint. "God-damn it."

A hand closed over his, stopping him from damaging he car door further.

"Let me drive," Clary said, her lips close to his ear, her presence warm.

Jace closed his eyes and drew in a breath of frigid air, the coldness burning his lungs. "You don't have a license."

"But I have my permit, and you're eighteen, so I can drive with you." His hand tightened over the keys and hers tightened over his. "Please, Jace, you can't drive like this. Just let me."

Jace's stomach rolled uncomfortably once more, and he relented, dropping the keys into Clary's hands, before moving to the passenger side. Once she unlocked the doors, Jace climbed in, his eyes staring straight forward, his body still quaking almost violently, and his stomach roiling. Clary started the car and carefully maneuvered out of the parking lot. Jace could feel her eyes flit between him and the road, her concern flowing over him in waves. But he couldn't calm it for her just then. He couldn't even calm it for himself.

They'd barely gotten a block away when the reality of what had just happened, and the pain in Jace's stomach, got to be too much. Bile rose into his throat. "Pull over," he groaned out.

Clary looked over at him, alarm etched into every line of her face. "What?"

"Pull over!"

She whipped the wheel to the side and had barely come to a stop, when Jace thrust the door open and lost his lunch all over the side of the road.

.o.O.o.

The drive to Jace's house from the diner was excruciating. Clary tried to keep her focus on the snow-covered road ahead—not wanting to push her driving in snow abilities too much just yet—but she couldn't help flicking her gaze to Jace several times every minute. His skin was sickly pale, and the circles under his eyes made it look as though he hadn't slept in days. Clary had seen Jace upset before, but this . . . this was something else entirely. He was more than upset. He was angry. Furious, even.

What had Stephen Herondale said to him that made him so angry? She could only imagine what had gone on between the two men before she'd managed to escape Nana and get outside. She knew that learning about Stephen's other son—Jace's half-brother—couldn't have been easy for him. Jace had spent his entire life living with the fact that his real father left because he didn't want to be a father. Now he was. He was some other boy's father, when he'd never been Jace's. That was probably something he would never get over.

But what exactly was he feeling now? Clary couldn't stand not knowing what to do for him. Usually she could tell what he needed from her, and on the off chance she couldn't, he would always tell her. He'd always been so open and honest with her about his thoughts and feelings from practically the first moment they'd realized who the other was. But he seemed so distant now, so unreachable. It scared Clary to see him this way. This was a Jace she didn't know.

Since he'd made her pull over, he hadn't said a word, hadn't made a sound. He just sat in the passenger seat, his hands gripping his thighs hard enough to turn his knuckles white, and his eyes focused straight ahead.

Clary wanted to ask him if he was okay, but even an idiot could see that he wasn't. Far from it. She had no idea what to say or do. She wanted to hold his hand, to rub her thumb across his palm in that way he did that always made her feel better. She wanted to touch his face, soothe his hurt with a kiss, but she was afraid he would push her away if she tried to touch him. So she did the only thing she could imagine she'd want in his situation: she stayed quiet and kept her hands on the wheel.

Before long, Jace's house loomed in the distance. Clary felt a sort of relief and also fear about what would happen when they got there. Would this awkward silence continue? Would he finally want to talk? She had no idea, and having no clue was not how she liked being with Jace.

She pulled up to the gate, her hands shaking so badly it took three tries to enter the code to open it. Once it was, she noticed a large white overnight envelope sticking out from the slot next to the keypad.

"Do you want me to—" she started, turning toward Jace, but her voice cut off when she noticed he was looking down at his lap, his jaw clenched tight.

Instead of finishing her thought, she grabbed the envelope, dropped it into her lap, and rolled up the window, carefully maneuvering the rest of the way up the drive. When she pulled the car to a stop, Jace undid his seatbelt and jumped out of the car. Clary had barely cut the ignition, and he was already opening the front door. She quickly undid herself and climbed out of the vehicle, wondering if he was going to be sick again. As fast as she could, she followed him into the house and up the stairs to his room, the envelope she'd collected clutched in her hands.

Jace crossed his room without looking behind him to see if she was following and entered the bathroom. Clary lingered behind, trying to give him some privacy in case he was going to throw up again. But she didn't hear any retching through the open door, and decided it was safe once the water in the sink turned on. Slowly, she crossed the room, pausing only momentarily to drop the envelope on Jace's desk. She paused when she reached the bathroom doorway. Jace stood at the sink, spitting out the remains of toothpaste, and rinsing his mouth by bending to take water directly from the tap. When he stood, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then leaned forward, his hands hanging onto the edge of the sink, his head down.

Clary's nerves jumped and sparked as she crossed the threshold to stand behind him. He was still so tense, his t-shirt stretched noticeably tight across his taut back, and she still had no idea what to do for him. What did he want? What did he need? Ignoring the warning butterflies in her stomach, she moved forward another step.

"Jace?" she whispered.

He still said nothing. The only sound in the room was their breathing.

"Jace?" she said again, taking a chance and reaching out, her hands resting lightly on his biceps. He shuddered under her touch, and it made her want to wrap her arms around him, to hold him close and secure, to take his pain and absorb it into herself. But she knew even if that were possible, he'd never let her. Closing her eyes, Clary leaned her head forward until her forehead rested against the space between his shoulder blades. "I don't know what to do. Tell me what to do."

And she didn't. Somehow, she'd managed to help him through his grief and shock after finding him in the cemetery, but this was not like then. Then, she could see how much he'd needed someone, how open he'd been to being cared for. This time he was closed off. She'd seen it in his face, in the way he clenched his hands. He wouldn't even look at her, let alone speak.

"Jace, please."

He let out a breath, but it did nothing to relieve the tension in his shoulders. And then it came, so quiet Clary wasn't quite sure she'd heard it.

". . . alone."

"What?" she said, removing her forehead from him.

He cleared his throat. "I need to be alone."

Clary couldn't help the tears that stung her eyes. "You want me to leave you alone?"

"Yes," he said, his voice low, quiet, void.

Clary took an involuntary step back, her hands slipping from his arms. "But I can—" _I can help you. Let me fix this. Let me fix you._

"Now, Clary." There was something urgent lacing the deadness to his tone, but he didn't look up. She needed to see his eyes, and he wouldn't show her his eyes. "Go. Now."

A tear slipped down her cheek as she turned toward the exit. His voice reached her once more just as she'd crossed into his room.

"Clary?"

She sniffed and turned back around. He hadn't moved; he was still curved over the sink in that same defensive position. "Yeah?"

"Close the door," was all he said.

A choked cry escaped from her lips, as she reached out and grabbed the edge of the door, closing it tightly. And just as she turned to lean her back against it, a loud crash sounded from the other side. She slid down the door, feeling the reverberations of whatever it was Jace was doing on the other side against her back. Once she reached the ground, she lowered her head to her knees and wrapped her arms around them, the pain inside of him coming out of her in ragged, aching sobs.

It hurt to cry. It hurt that he hurt. And it hurt even worse that he didn't want her to help him take it away.

.o.O.o.

Dozen's of Jace's stared out from the spider-web cracked surface of the mirror, all with pale white skin tinged with green, and red rimmed eyes. All looked lost and unsure and afraid, and none looked a thing like anyone Jace recognized.

He turned his face from side to side slowly, taking in the sweat beaded across his forehead, cheeks, and neck, studying the damp pieces of hair curling tighter from the moisture. He was disgusted. Disgusting. He couldn't stand the sight of himself. Jace lifted his hand and placed it over the glass, so he couldn't see his reflection anymore. Jagged, uneven pieces of glass cut patterns into his palm.

When he pulled his hand away, the glass was tinted red in the place he'd touched. A long cut stretched across his knuckles, and drying drips of blood stained the spaces between his fingers and palm. Jace's shoulders rose and fell quickly, adrenaline still pumping furiously through his veins. He flexed his fingers and pain lanced through his hand. Lowering his head, Jace drew in a breath and closed his eyes. Letting loose on his mirror really hadn't helped anything at all. He was still pissed beyond all reason.

Part of him wondered if he'd ever feel normal again. And another part wondered if he'd ever felt normal in the first place. He thought he had, when it had just been about football, and impressing his dad, and getting to play in college. When he'd been the king of his school, and his classmates didn't take such large measures to avoid him. He wanted to not care about being a social pariah; he wanted it to not matter what other people thought of him. But no matter how much he acted like it didn't, it did. It always had.

Being special had always made him feel . . . well, special. He craved that spotlight, that adoration. He'd be a lying piece of shit if he tried to claim otherwise. But, although it hadn't helped, what happened at school that day was not what this rage was all about. He didn't even want to think about what it was really about. But he couldn't help it.

Stephen's face flashed through his mind, the way his blue eyes softened and his smile widened when he mentioned his other son. Jace tried to remember when his own father had looked at him that way. He couldn't. He couldn't even remember when his mother had. Sure, she'd loved him. She'd said so all the time. But it wasn't in her eyes like that. It wasn't in her smile. When she'd looked at Jace, it had been with a hint of resentment, of sadness. Not love. Not adoration. Not anything that could even compare to how Stephen Herondale had looked at the mere mention of his child.

And Jace was jealous. So God-damn jealous he could feel it in his bones, twisting and aching and bending. He didn't want to feel this way, didn't want to give a shit. That man had been nothing more than a dark presence in the back of Jace's mind his entire life. He'd been the villain to every story. It was his face he'd seen in every nightmare. He was every monster and every bump, creak, and howl in the night. He was every evil and every pain-riddled shred of black.

But now his face was different. It was not monstrous or unkind or evil. It was Jace's own. And it was happy. It was loved and in love, and it made Jace hate him even more. He should have been miserable too. He should have felt like he was pushed down and buried under every resentful second of his life. He shouldn't have been able to move on, to be happy, when he'd walked away from his first child, leaving him to wonder why. Why? Why hadn't he been enough? Why hadn't he been good enough for him to stay and to look at him the way he'd looked at the mention of the other boy? What the hell had Jace done before he was even born to deserve to be alone? To have no one that looked after him, who cared enough about what happened to him, who's face lit up and smile widened at the sound of _his_ name? What had he _done_?

Jace slammed his already aching fist down on the edge of the sink, and reached up with his other hand to grip his hair. Nothing seemed to take the ache away, nothing seemed to soothe it even a fraction. He looked around at the mess he'd made, at the cracks stretching the length of the mirror, the blood-laced shards of glass scattered over the tile floor, and none of it, none of the destruction and release of anger made any of it better. He was still Jace. He was still facing jail time. He was still watching his dreams circle the drain. And he was still alone.

A soft shuffling sound came from just outside the door, and Jace realized with a start that he was not alone—at least not in his room. Clary was here, waiting for him in his room. In all his rage and self-pity, he'd been unable to look at her, unable to let her see the monster that lived inside of him. So he'd pushed her away, made her leave him alone. She couldn't see . . . shouldn't see . . . But she had.

Jace pulled his hair tighter and crossed the room, pausing before the door. He lifted his hand and placed it flat against the wood, the surface cool and hard under his palm. He was so cold. Too cold.

Jace could feel Clary out there, through the physical barrier between them, through all the layers and walls he'd built up inside of himself. And she was so warm. So, so warm. He wanted to steal that warmth. He wanted to take it inside himself, wrap it around and around him until it squeezed the never ending freeze from his bones, from his heart. He needed her air and her life and . . . her. Just her.

Lowering a shaking hand to the even colder knob, Jace twisted and pushed the door open. It swung slowly on its hinges, emitting a slow creak. The light inside the room was dim, the sun already fading into the winter sky, even though it was only early evening. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust from the brightness of the bathroom, but when they did, he saw her.

Clary sat on the edge of Jace's bed, her hands clasped and lying still on her lap, and her face turned up to him. Her eyes were bright, slightly red, and dried tear tracks stained her cheeks. Jace's heart jumped, and he reached over to flick off the harsh bathroom lights, plunging them both into the muted darkness of his room. He heard Clary's shaky breath leave her lips, and he started across the room, his sneaker-covered feet shuffling across the carpet. It seemed like miles instead of feet between them. And he knew he was the one who'd placed them there when he'd made her leave, when he'd shut himself off from her so she wouldn't see him self destruct. She'd seen him weak. She'd seen him cry. But she'd never seen him lose control of his anger. Not like that. And he didn't want her to. He didn't want to frighten her away. He didn't want to be that person with her.

When he reached her, he saw her head lift, heard her hair brush across her shoulders, felt her stare bore into his face. He looked down, seeing only the outline of her in the dark, he wanted to see more: her expression, her eyes, the way she held her mouth, because if he could see that, he would know how much damage he'd done. How much he'd hurt and scared her with his actions. But he couldn't see any of that. There were only lines, shapes. Shapes he knew so well: how they looked and felt and moved around, above, and beneath him.

And then she lifted her hand, her fingertips just brushing the outside of his wrist: an offering, an invitation, a welcome, a please. And Jace couldn't take the distance anymore. He let himself drop to his knees at her feet, his hands reaching for her hips, pulling her forward, folding her into him, and buried his face in her stomach.

"I'm sorry," he said, his throat thick. He breathed her in, reveling in the familiarity and _home_ of her. Of the safety and calm and everything she was to him. "I'm sorry."

"Shh," she said, her fingers pushing through his hair. She was trying to be calming, to be the strong one, but her hands were shaking against him.

Jace lifted his head and grabbed her hand, bringing it to his lips, kissing the tips and tasting the salty wetness of tears on her skin. He didn't know if they were hers or his. "I'm so sorry, baby. Forgive me," he whispered. "Please."

Clary slipped her hand from his and placed both of hers on his face, her thumbs brushing across his cheeks, her eyes finally visible in the waning light. They were so large, so understanding, so heartbreaking. And he didn't deserve them at all. "There's nothing to forgive. It's okay. You know that, right? It's okay." Her voice was so soft, so sincere.

Jace closed his eyes when she leaned in and kissed his cheeks, his nose, his forehead. "I hate him," he breathed, the words feeling like they were being ripped from someplace deep in his chest, leaving a gaping, seeping hole in their place. But even as they did, something else filled the space, building it back up, healing him as the others tore him apart. "I hate him so much."

"I know, sweetheart," Clary whispered, surprising Jace with the name, but in a good way. No one but his mom had ever called him that before, and when Clary said it, it made him feel . . . invincible. Incredible. Wanted.

He opened his eyes.

"Call me that again," he said, his own hands coming up to cup her face, mimicking the way she held him.

Clary's brows drew together, but she did what he asked anyway. "Sweetheart," she said, barely a whisper, barely audible. But Jace felt the breath of it on his face.

His lids slipped shut once more and a wave of hurt rolled over him, crushing his chest, closing his throat, stinging his eyes. It wasn't 'hurt' in the traditional sense, but more loneliness, abandonment, resentfulness—all the things he felt toward the people in his life, or who should have been in his life, who should have been the ones to call him that. "Again," he said, through the pain, through the need, because in spite of all that, there was also warmth and hope in that word, in that simple endearment that other people took for granted. "Please. Again."

Clary's fingers tightened on his face and then he felt the warmth of her mouth just before his. "Sweetheart," she said again, her lips brushing his as she spoke, allowing him to feel it as well as hear it. And the way she said it, the way she felt it, the way she _meant_ it, made that other hurt dim. Clary repeated it over and over again, each time touching more of his skin with her words, with her adoration. And that's what it felt like to him: adoration. Complete, untainted, undeserved.

When Jace opened his eyes, his vision was blurred. He blinked and they cleared, as warm wetness fell over his cheeks. And, finally, _finally_, there it was in her eyes. That thing he'd been searching for, what he'd been wishing for his whole life. He drew in a shuddering breath, his chest clearing with the realization. "You look at me that way," he said, his voice laced with awe, and his eyes moving from one of hers to the other.

She frowned. "How?"

"Like he should. Like they should have." Jace brushed her hair away from her face. "Like I'm special. Like I'm everything. Like you adore me."

"You are," she said, her lips brushing his again, so lightly, barely even there. "You are. And I do." She kissed him again, fuller this time, lingering just a little, her lips warm and soft and dry and perfect. "I do. So much. You know that, don't you? I love you. You are my everything." And then she spoke the words Jace really needed to hear, the ones that validated every ache, weakness, and break inside of him, every desperation, every darkness, and made it all okay. "I need you. And it's okay for you to need me too." Her hands trailed over his face as her lips continued warming his. "Let me be there, Jace. Let me help you. Don't shut me out." Clary moved one palm from his cheek and placed it on his chest, then she lowered her head and kissed him through his shirt, his heart pounding against her lips. "Please. Let me make it better. Let me take it away."

Jace's hands slipped back into her hair and he lowered his face to her head, kissing her: her ear, her cheek, anything he could reach. "You do," he said, lifting her face to his. "You always do." And then he kissed her the way he needed to, deep and hard and with everything he had inside of him. "You always do," he whispered again through kisses, through the swipes of lips and slips of tongue. He could taste the saltiness of his tears on her mouth, but it just made her sweet taste even sweeter. "I love you," he said, his hand slipping to the space where her neck met her shoulder, and he could feel her pulse thrumming against his palm. It was fast and strong and all for him. It was like music, like breath. And he needed it, needed her so damn much he could feel it in every tense inch of his body. "I need you so much."

"I'm right here," she whispered, lowering her hand from his face, trailing it down his arm and wrapping it around his wrist, tugging against him lightly. "I'm right here."

"I need you," he repeated, pressing his fingertips to her sternum and pushing her gently onto her back.

With her hand clutching his neck and her lips attached to his, Jace followed Clary down, his body hovering over hers as he still kept his feet on the ground. Carefully, he grabbed her by the hips and pushed her up the bed until her entire body was on the mattress. He followed her up, lying next to her in the dark. He could see the shape of her belly protruding in the low light, and he placed his hand on the side of it, turning her body so she was facing him, their mouths still kissing, her fingers raking up and down his side, slipping up under the edge of his shirt. And it felt so good, so good and so right and so what he needed right then. It wasn't about the physical. It wasn't about sex, because other than kissing, none of the ways they were touching each other were sexual at all. It was just about this, this feeling of being wanted, of being needed, of being revered.

Jace moved his hand to the dip of Clary's waist, then back to her back, letting his fingers find the bare flesh at the bottom of her spine, just as she had for him. She shivered in his arms, and goosebumps rose under his fingertips.

Clary moved her hand to his face, holding him against her, opening her mouth wider, kissing him deeper, but the feelings between them were the same. There was no rush or expectation to take it further. Everything in that moment was perfect just as it was. Their legs tangled together, twisting them closer and closer. Jace's hand moved back around to Clary's stomach, and he let it linger there against her smooth, firm flesh. It felt so different than the rest of her. Gone was the layer of softness that covered the rest of her body, there it was stretched tight, thin, and hard. He rubbed his thumb over her skin, just lightly, and she giggled against his lips. He smiled at the sound, loving the shape her mouth took when she smiled against his. He opened up a little wider to kiss her deeper, and then he felt it. The smallest nudge against his thumb.

Jace froze, mid-kiss, mid-leg rub, mid-everything. He could feel Clary's breath on his face, her hands tangled in his hair, the beat of her pulse against his arm, but nothing else. He waited for several seconds, barely even moving, but there was nothing.

"Jace?" Clary asked. "What's wrong?"

He shook his head. "Nothing, I—" And then it happened again, the smallest nudge, the tiniest little thump against his thumb. "Shit," he said, pressing his whole hand over the spot on her stomach. Then again: thump, thump. Jace let out a surprised half-laugh, half-gasp. He lifted his gaze to Clary's, and her eyes were on his, wide and unblinking. "Clary . . . was that . . . is that . . .?" His breath shook when he exhaled.

"You felt that?" she asked, her hand lowering from his face to rest on top of his, where he had it lying on her stomach.

Jace nodded. "Am I crazy? Did I feel him?"

Clary's mouth spread wide in the biggest smile. "What did it feel like to you?"

"I don't . . ." Jace frowned, then he took her hand in his, turned it palm up, and lightly flicked the fleshy part of her thumb. "Like that," he whispered. "It felt just like that."

Clary let out a little laugh and nodded her head. "Then, yes. _Yes._"

She grabbed his hand and pressed it to her stomach again, and immediately Jace felt the little thuds and nudges once more. "Oh, God," he said, the strangest feeling rising up in him, unlike he'd ever felt before. It was almost like what he felt for Clary, but so different at the same time. Jace let his fingers lightly caress the moving skin, never letting his hand leave, but feeling his son back, letting him know that yes, _yes_, he felt him. Yes, he was there too.

Clary kissed Jace's cheek, his neck, his shoulder, and she whispered her love in his ear. He heard her, but he was transfixed, mesmerized by what he was experiencing. He'd never imagined it would be like this, that he would feel like this. There were no words to describe it. No words to describe what he felt for Clary, what he felt for this little person inside of her.

Turning toward Clary, he kissed her again, softly, lovingly, and then he slid down her body, lifting her shirt to reveal the entire swell in her abdomen. Her fingers threaded through his hair, and he turned his head a little to kiss the inside of her wrist. And then he was eye-level to his son, his child. He kept his hand over the place their son still moved, and slowly, nervously, lowered his head and pressed his lips to the same spot. It felt strange because he was kissing Clary's belly, but not kissing Clary at all. But not strange enough to overshadow how it felt to feel that movement against his skin.

"Thank you," he said to her belly, his fingers still running over Clary's flesh, still feeling the little thuds going on beneath. "I think I really needed you too." He pressed another kiss to Clary's stomach, then laid his cheek against it, staring up into her eyes.

She watched him, her touch still moving through his hair, the sound of her heart echoing in his ear, and their son's kicks flicking against his face. It was nothing he'd ever thought he'd want, but now he knew was everything he ever could.

"He's going to look at you like that someday too, you know," Clary said. "Like he adores you. Like you're everything. Because he will, and because to him you will be."

Jace just looked at her, hoping she could see it all in his eyes, because there were still no words, none in existence that conveyed the enormity of what he felt for her. For either of them. And so he gave the only ones he had, the very unworthy, very weak words to try to tell her the immensity of what lived inside. "I adore _you_."

Clary smiled, her fingers slipping from his hair to his cheek, tracing his jaw and then his lips. "I know," she said.

And in that moment, that tiny slice of infinity, everything was okay. It wouldn't be forever, and there would probably be more bad days than good, but for right then, this was all Jace wanted, all he needed. And he was going to hold onto these seconds, these feelings, and keep them locked away safe and sound, until the day came when they were all ripped away.

* * *

><p><em>Firstly: Omg, the angst. It killed me. But, what can I say? I love it, and DSJ is all about the angst. And yes, he is planning for the worst, hence the last line. He's a pessimist. :P<em>

_Secondly: to the people who think Jace is "too vulnerable" or "too emotional", well, this is how this Jace is. Either you like it or you don't, but it's not going to change. He is tough, but he feels A LOT, and when he's with Clary, he shows it. I happen to adore him and his differences from Cassie's Jace (and my other Jace's). It makes him his own._

_Thirdly: I'm doing NanoWriMo this month, so there will be no update until December sometime. It shouldn't be much longer of a wait than you had for this chapter, but I figured I'd warn you anyway—just so you'd know._

_Fourthly: Awww. Daddy Jace gets to feel little baby kicks! I love it. (And before anyone tries to contradict, Clary is between 18-19 weeks pregnant. She is at the very cusp of the time frame where others can feel the baby's kicks. I decided that because she is so tiny and thin to begin with, that Jace probably would be able to feel them at the beginning of that time too. My husband could feel ours around this time.)_

_Until next time, XOXO ~ddpjclaf_


	26. Aren't We Beautiful

**Chapter Twenty-six - "Aren't We Beautiful"**

_Well, it's been awhile, yeah? I hope this will be worth the wait._

_A big thanks to lightlacedwithbeauty and ktut for their beta and pre-reading skills. You both help me out so much. *muah*_

_Chapter songs:_

_**There Are Worse Things I Could Do – Grease (Clary beginning)_

_**Blow Me (One Last Kiss) – Pink (Clary/Maia)_

_**Dream On – Aerosmith (Jace)_

_**Wonderful – Everclear (Clary/Valentine)_

_**Speechless – Morning Parade (Clary/Jace)_

* * *

><p><em>"See?"<em> a whispered voice came from behind Clary. _"That's the one I was telling you about."_

_"Wait . . . her?"_ another voice said. _"Oh my God, I thought she was just fat. She's not even cute. And she's wearing sweatpants! At school!"_

Clary drew in a breath and crossed her arms protectively over the books she held against her stomach as she traversed the crowded hall. She tried to keep her shoulders square and her spine straight, to make it seem like her classmates' words did not affect her.

"_Apparently the Northwest quarterback doesn't care about that. Easier to get off."_

Giggles and snorts followed Clary as she passed by. One of the girls sighed.

"_Have you seen him though? The boy is fine. I don't really blame her for letting him into her pants,"_ she said. _"I totally would."_

"_Gross!"_ Another girl chimed in._ "You know he likes 'em super young anyway." _More snorts and giggles._ "Plus, he's gonna be sporting one of those jumpsuits pretty soon. Even he couldn't make orange look good."_

Clary stopped listening and hurried further down the hall, clutching her books tighter and working them to cover more of her bulging belly. She'd thought once people grew used to seeing her and knowing about her predicament the stares and whispers would lessen. Unfortunately, they hadn't—at least not enough to notice. Clary still heard every one, still felt each as they were flung at her, like arrows shot from a bow, piercing her right through the heart.

Every crossways glance. Every passive aggressive comment. Every giggle hidden behind a hand. They all burned into her like a branding iron against her skin.

Shifting glances and snickers greeted her every few feet as she tried to squeeze her growing body through the limited space between each group of students. Though at this point, she wasn't sure if they were due to her growing girth, the rumors about Jace's charges, or her unflattering clothing as of late.

Over the past weeks, the frigid days of January had turned to the even colder ones of February. The decreased temperature presented Clary with not only the added complication of maneuvering her unbalanced body over the ice-covered ground, but also the predicament of finding clothing that was both comfortable and warm. The leggings and shirt-dresses making up the bulk of her maternity wear to this point finally met their match in her growing son. When the last pair stretched beyond its ability, she was forced to move to boy's sweatpants—pilfered from Isabelle's brother Alec—and one of the numerous t-shirts she'd stolen from Jace.

Today, her sweatpants—rolled several times at the ankles and waist to fit—were heather-gray, and her t-shirt, which reached to mid-thigh even with her stomach, was black. And though the hormones coursing through her body made her hair thicker and shinier than it had ever been, she hadn't bothered to do anything with it, deciding to pull it back into a ponytail instead. With the increasing insomnia at night, she really didn't have the energy to be bothered about her appearance during the day. Apparently, her lack of care about her physical appearance bothered some of her classmates, though.

She passed another group of girls—ones she'd known all her life, and had always been friendly with—and stiffened as their insults and giggles floated over her.

_"Do you see what she's wearing today? As if being fat wasn't bad enough."_

_ "I can't believe she'd even come back to school. How embarrassing."_

Clary's face flamed in anger and mortification. She should have been used to this stuff by now, by the narrow-minded fickleness of her peers, but maybe she never would be.

A few boys horsing around in the hall knocked into Clary's shoulder, shoving her slightly into the group, before continuing their play down the hall. The girls gave her the evil eye and brushed off their arms as if they could catch pregnancy or some other disgusting condition just from being touched by her.

Clary hurried around them, finally reaching her locker. Flinging the door open and fighting the urge to cry, she tossed her books inside and hid herself behind the door. It wasn't big enough to shield her completely, but she was getting pretty good at pretending it was.

In the small square mirror she'd hung on the inside of her locker on the first day of school, she caught sight of her reflection. Dull, tired eyes stared back at her. She reached up and rubbed against the dark circles the size of craters underneath them, but no matter how much she scrubbed, they didn't fade. Dropping her hand, Clary sighed and continued to stare. She searched the image for the cute, pale girl with a smattering of light freckles across her nose and a gleam of mischief in her stare she used to see. She'd sort of liked that girl, liked her spunky attitude and confidence. Now the only person reflected back was a scared, confused teenager with too much roundness to her cheeks, and dull moss colored eyes.

She squeezed her lids shut and tried to take herself back to a moment when she'd felt good, that she'd felt cute, and wanted, and worthwhile. It had been so long. So, so long.

Jace tried to remind her time and time again, to let her know that to him she was still that girl. Just a few days before, he'd managed to make her almost feel it again.

Almost, and just for a few moments.

Standing there in the loud and crowded hall, Clary could still feel how her stomach had twisted and churned that day as she'd stood in front of the full-length mirror hanging on Jace's closet door. She'd just stripped out of the uncomfortably tight outfit she'd worn to school, and was staring at herself dressed only in her underwear and a tank top that left half of her stomach sticking out.

_Tears stung her eyes as her gaze slipped to the expanse of exposed skin below the bottom of her shirt. Her fingertips traced the new, dark reddish-purple lines meandering out from the top of her panties and extending across the expanse of her once unblemished flesh. Dozens of them, some fat, some thin, but all jagged and uneven, twisting without aim, like a grotesque map to the loss of everything she used to be: young, untainted, untouched._

_Sometimes she was okay with that—well, maybe not okay, but she had accepted it. That she would never look the same. That she would never be the same. Then there were times when she saw herself and what this was doing to her, and she was anything but._

_The bathroom door opened, and Jace, followed by a cloud of steam, stepped into the room. He wore nothing but a dark blue towel around his waist, his hair still dripping water onto his shoulders and glistening on his perfectly fit, perfectly beautiful eighteen-year-old boy body. Clary peered over at him and choked back a sob when he caught her eye and grinned. His face fell and he came over to her, bringing the look and smell of his flawlessness closer. He stepped up behind her._

"_What's wrong?"_

"_What do you mean 'what's wrong'? Look at me." She gestured to her reflection._

_His eyes slid over her likeness, his brows coming together before meeting her stare in the glass. "I am looking at you." He settled his hands on her upper arms, his thumbs rubbing circles into her flesh and his mouth brushing the space where her neck and shoulder met._

"_How can you stand to?" she whispered. _

"_Stop," he murmured into her shoulder. "You're beautiful."_

_Clary closed her eyes. "I'm fat and bloated. I have black circles the size of the moon from the lack of sleep, and I have these . . . these . . . disgusting stretch marks. I'm not beautiful. I'm hideous."_

_Jace's fingers on her tightened, and she was turning. She opened her eyes and she was no longer facing the mirror but facing him instead. He gazed down at her, gold eyes flitting all over her face, seeing her, seeing everything. A shiver shook her from the weight of his stare. _

_Jace lifted his hands and cradled her face between them. Clary blinked as he bent down and kissed her lightly, just once, on the center of her mouth._

"_You _are_ beautiful," he repeated in a whisper. _

"_I don't feel it," she whispered back. "Especially not when I'm standing next to you." Clary laid her palm over his heart and traced her fingers down his chest and abs. They rose and fell over every hard dip and every smooth groove. "Do you have any idea how . . . how . . . disgustingly perfect you are? Really, it makes me want to puke." He chuckled, and she glanced up. "I want to look good when I stand next to you. Like I belong."_

_The smile faded from Jace's lips, and he slowly turned her toward the mirror once more._

"_Look at us," he said._

"_I am," she said. And she did. She studied her frumpy self, all pale and fat and scarred, standing in front of him and all his tanned and sculpted perfection. _

"_No," he said. "Look at _us_." He bent down, his hands making their way around her body, resting on either side of her rounded, marked up stomach. "You see?" His fingers spread over the expanse, caressing her, protecting her, owning her. "See how beautiful we are? How perfect?" He touched his mouth to the sensitive spot behind her ear, and whispered, "You belong. You belong right here with me."_

_Clary squeezed her lids shut, allowing the tears that had gathered to fall over her cheeks before opening her eyes once more and meeting his in the mirror. "When you say it, I almost believe it."_

"_You should. I'm laying this sappy shit on pretty thick."_

_Clary laughed, her breath catching a bit when her throat constricted around it. Her gaze traveled down to where Jace touched her, to where he laid his hands over the part of her that was both of them combined. She rested her hands on top of his and laced their fingers together, watching the way they fit seamlessly. And in that moment, she did believe him. "We are beautiful."_

"_Yeah, we are, baby." Jace pulled her tighter against him. "Yeah, we are."_

Clary blew out a slow breath and opened her eyes. The reflection of her and Jace was gone, replaced by the one of just her, standing alone in the middle of the school hall. Slams of lockers and laughter continued around her, completely oblivious of the battle she was fighting inside herself. The phantom warmth his hands had left on her flesh faded away, along with the clarity in her heart. Freezing doubt and insecurity spread over her like frost.

"We're beautiful," she whispered to herself. Her eyes stayed glued to the pair in the mirror, trying to convince them that what she said was true, what Jace had said was true. But they did not change, did not flare with even a spark of veracity.

They did not believe her.

They stayed just as dull, lifeless, and unconvinced as they were before.

The clang of a locker door startled Clary, and when she turned toward the sound, she was greeted with the sight of Isabelle, leaned up against the locker next to Clary's. She crossed her arms over her chest and blew a rogue piece of dark hair out of her face.

"If I have to curl one more ribbon or look at another stupid pink heart, I'm going to puke."

Clary continued gathering her things into her bag, trying to shake off the heat forming in her chest and threatening to travel up her neck to pool in her face. She wanted so badly to hold on to the slight contentment she'd gained by remembering Jace's words, but even now, only seconds later, she felt it fading from her. No matter how hard she fought to keep it, it kept slipping from her grasp.

Isabelle turned toward her, eyes narrowed. "Oh, I suppose you like all this fluffy hearts and candy crap, now that you're in looooooove."

"What?" Clary said, still shaken up and confused for a moment before realizing what Isabelle was going on about. "Oh, um, no." She shut her locker door with a bang, her gaze drifting over the cheesy holiday banners and signs for purchasing candy and carnations. "I still think Valentine's Day is a crock." She slung her bag over her shoulder. "I mean, if a guy needs a day on the calendar to remind him to show his girl she's special, then no thanks. I'd rather not."

Isabelle raised a brow as she walked along beside Clary. "So cynical."

Clary shrugged. "That's how I've always felt about it. It's all just so cliché and stupid anyway. I mean, do girls really go for this crap? Do they actually think the guy likes feeling obligated to buy them flowers and candy and a cheesy card? Do they think it really means something?"

"Have you expressed this intense dislike of Love Day to Loverboy? Or is he going to show up with a bunch of flowers and candy and get a knee to the nuts instead of a grateful kiss?"

Clary rolled her eyes at her friend. "I would never hit him there."

Isabelle snorted. "Oh no, we wouldn't want to damage the goods or anything."

Clary's face heated at the thought of what "goods" Jace had.

Isabelle laughed, and Clary shook the thoughts out of her head. The middle of the school hallway was not the place to think about that.

"Jace isn't into this Valentine's Day stuff either. It's not his style. I mean, seriously, could you see him buying me flowers and candy?"

"He bought you donut holes," Isabelle pointed out.

"Yeah, but that was different."

"How so?"

"It just . . . it was, okay? He did that just to do it, just because he knew I liked them. Not because a date on the calendar told him to. That's how I'd rather it be. If he wants to do something sweet, whenever, I'd rather him do it then."

"Maybe he wants to be sweet today." Isabelle waggled her brows.

"He's sweet every day."

"Whatever. Gag. Maybe he wants to be sweet_er_."

"I told him I didn't want to celebrate Valentine's Day, Iz."

"Why the hell would you do that?" Isabelle stared at her with wide eyes. "It's flowers and _free candy_! Who doesn't want that?"

Clary sighed. "I just don't like the fuss. The expectations and insincerity behind—"

Clary pitched forward into Isabelle when something hard collided into her back. She grunted as their bodies connected and her friend caught her under the arms. Her heavy stomach pulled her into a painful arch, and she gasped as one of her muscles tweaked, sending an excruciating jolt up her spine.

"Ooops," came Maia's voice from behind her.

"What the hell, Maia?" Isabelle said, helping Clary to stand. She held onto her arms until Clary had restored her balance. "Why don't you watch where you're going?"

Clary grimaced and reached behind her, laying her hand on the small of her back and hissing through her teeth as the muscles ached and burned.

"You okay, Clary?" Isabelle asked.

Clary nodded, trying her hardest to blink back the tears of pain starting to form in her eyes. "Yeah, I'm good," she said. Her cheeks heated as she noticed the stares boring into her from all sides. Great. Just great.

"Sorry about that, Clary. I don't know how I didn't see you. You know, being as . . . noticeable . . . as you are."

Isabelle turned to Maia. "Is there a reason you're still here?"

She blinked innocently. "I was just saying sorry, Isabelle."

"Yeah, whatever, Maia. You and I both know you don't care in the least."

"It's fine, Iz," Clary said, reaching out to lay a hand on her friend's forearm. "Let's just—"

"No," Isabelle shook her hand off, "it's not. You know she probably did it on purpose. She's done nothing but act like a bitch to you since she found out. What the hell is your problem, Maia?"

Maia narrowed her eyes and thrust a handful of posters at Isabelle. Clary spied the pink and red hearts motif peeking out from the edges as the papers passed in front of her. "My problem is, you're standing around gabbing when you should be helping. I'm going to need you to put these up."

Isabelle looked down at the posters and back up at Maia. "You've got to be kidding me."

"Why would I kid about something like this?"

Clary glanced between the two girls, feeling the irritation radiating from her best friend. This was not going to be pretty.

"I just spent all of last period tying and curling stupid ribbons to those God-awful red and white balloons in the gym," Isabelle spat, the vein above her eye pulsing in annoyance. "Plus, I sprinkled that stupid heart confetti all over the place. I'm done."

"I'm team captain and it's up to me when you're done." Maia stepped forward, thrusting herself in Isabelle's face. "The Valentine's Dance is our big fundraising deal, Izzy, you know that. You're part of the squad, so you need to help until we're done. We're already working a girl down." She turned her glare to Clary. "It's too bad you can't come tonight, Clary."

Clary blinked.

"What are you talking about, Maia? Why wouldn't she be able to come?" Isabelle said.

"Oh," Maia said, innocently. "I didn't figure she'd want to. You know, what with finding a dress to fit over . . . that," she gestured to Clary's stomach, "being so difficult and all." She leaned into Clary, her voice lowering to a whisper. "Plus, I don't think it's really wise to bring a pedophile to a high school dance, do you?"

Clary jerked back as if she'd been slapped. But before she could say a thing, Isabelle had pushed her way between the two girls.

"Oh, please tell me you did not just say what I think you said." A red flush spread over Isabelle's cheeks and her eyes flashed. Clary recognized the look of controlled rage on her friend's face. A semi-circle of onlookers closed in around them, their gazes curious and amused. Isabelle moved forward, stopping only when her nose practically touched Maia's. "Who the hell do you think you are—"

"Iz." Clary wedged herself between the two girls and turned toward her friend. "Come on. She's not worth it."

Isabelle didn't meet Clary's gaze and kept her eyes firm on Maia's. "Move out of the way, Clary. I think it's time I taught this bitch a lesson."

"Yeah, Clary, you should do as she says. Wouldn't want your bastard getting caught in between us," Maia snarled behind her.

Clary's back stiffened at the word and a flash of heat spread from her chest, up her neck, and across her cheeks. Isabelle's eyes widened as they flicked from Maia's to Clary's. Her brows raised and she reached out for Clary.

"Clary . . ." she said cautiously.

But Clary wasn't hearing any of it. The only thing she could hear was that word, that name, bouncing around and around and around inside her head. Technically, the term was correct—she and Jace were not married, were not getting married—but she would not stand for her son being called that by anyone, least of all Maia Roberts. Slowly, she turned. Maia stood before her, her face fixed in a haughty expression, hands on her hips.

"What did you call him?"

Maia smirked. "Nothing that isn't true. That _is_ what it is, you know."

Clary clenched and unclenched her hands at her sides, her heart hammering against her ribs. "Take it back."

"Why would I take it back?" Maia said. "You know it's what everyone's thinking. You know it's what everyone will always think of it. It'll always be Jace Wayland's little bastard."

Uncontrolled fury burst out of Clary and before she knew what was happening, there was a crunch, a spray of red, and a shot of pain spreading through her hand and up into her arm. Maia fell back, her hands cupping her face, blood pouring from between her fingers. Clary snapped back to herself, her hand aching and throbbing as she shook it at her side.

"Ow," she said.

"Holy shit, Clary," Isabelle said, her words tinged with awe.

"You bitch!" Maia wailed, her voice nasally and muffled. "I think you broke my nose!"

Clary held her hand to her chest, her pulse speeding and her breathing rapid. "Oh my God," she whispered. "What did I do?"

"What did you do?" Isabelle grabbed her shoulder and turned Clary toward her, her voice incredulous. "You showed that bitch what happens when she messes with your kid, that's what you did." She slung her arm over Clary's shoulder and pulled her close, as several cheerleaders rushed over to Maia and a few others watched wearily from the sidelines.

Clary looked down at her hand, flexing and opening it as pain continued to radiate through it. She couldn't believe what she'd just done. She'd_ hit_ someone. No, not just someone, _Maia. _And, oh God, had it felt good. A rush of power and pride flooded her. She didn't know what had come over her, but whatever it was, she liked it.

A throat cleared and Clary's momentary elation dulled. Turning slowly, she came face to face with the school principal. Ms. Talbot stood with her arms crossed over her cliché blue suit dress, her toe tapping the tiled floor.

"What is going on here?" she asked.

Clary opened her mouth to answer, but Maia cried out instead.

"She punched me! I think she broke my nose!"

Principal Talbot settled her gaze on Clary, giving her a look that would normally make Clary sweat. But not this time. This time she felt vindicated in what she'd done. She'd defended herself and her son, and she wasn't sorry in the least.

"Is this true, Miss Morgenstern?" Principal Talbot asked.

Clary took one last look around at the crowd, caught Isabelle's encouraging smile, and straightened her shoulders, meeting Principal Talbot's eyes. "Yes, ma'am. I sure did, and I'd do it again."

Principal Talbot sighed and rubbed her forehead between her thumb and middle fingers. "Miss Morgenstern, Miss Roberts, my office. Now."

Maia whimpered and a couple of cheerleaders lifted her off the floor. They held onto her arms and helped her up the hall, as if she couldn't walk on her own. Clary rolled her eyes and started forward, stopping when Isabelle's hand cupped her shoulder. She peered back at her friend.

"Go get her, mama bear."

Clary nodded and started down the hall after Maia and Principal Talbot. As she neared the door to the office, she couldn't help the small grin that pulled at the corner of her lips. No matter what happened behind the principal's door, she would never regret what she'd done. For the first time in a long time, Clary felt right, confident, whole.

She felt a little like her old self.

.o.O.o.

Jace pulled a clean, dry shirt over his still damp skin. The locker room, clouded with steam from the showers, was loud and rowdy like usual, and Jace was surprised at how normal it felt. In the past weeks things had been awkward and uncomfortable, but lately it was different. Better.

"Hey, good game, man."

Jace lurched forward a bit when one of his classmates clapped him on the shoulder. Drips of water fell over his forehead when he glanced back and tipped his chin at his former teammate. "Clean up that layup, Schmidt, and maybe next time you won't get your ass whipped so badly."

Schmidt grinned. "How do you know I wasn't just going easy on you, Wayland?"

"Because you were panting like a bitch in heat." Jace finished tying his shoe and stood from the bench, leaning over to grab his bag and close his gym locker door. "Besides, you know better than to insult me like that."

"In football. I know better in football," Schmidt said. "In basketball anything goes. That's not your domain."

"Everything that works up a sweat is my domain."

Schmidt shook his head and laughed. "Shit. You're such a douchebag." He held out his fist. "Your ass is mine tomorrow."

Jace paused for a moment, then reached out and bumped his fist against Schmidt's. "We'll just see about that."

Schmidt shook his head once more, his grin stretching from one ear to the other, and sauntered toward the exit. Drawing in a slow breath, Jace adjusted his bag over his shoulder. The fact that some of his old friends were starting to come around still caught him off-guard at times. He'd grown used to the taunting and avoidance, and had learned to anticipate it before it came. But since he and Kaelie had talked and she'd stopped torturing him at every turn, things had calmed down a lot for him.

The girls still gave him sidelong glances when he walked by them in the hall, the cautiousness in their eyes never quite disappearing no matter how much his predicament became part of the past. Even when the truth came out about how everything actually went down that night, that he wasn't the threat they'd originally thought he was, it didn't seem to matter all that much. Some of them were still scared of him. Jace didn't really blame them. It was what it was, and they felt what they felt.

It was different with the guys. At first they'd looked at him as if they didn't know him, as if it would be a sin of epic proportions to be seen conversing with him. But as the days passed and the newness of his transgressions became old and stale, the stigma of being around him fell away. No, things were certainly not the same as they'd been before. Jace used to be big shit in his school. He was looked up to, fantasized about, idolized.

He'd been untouchable.

And now . . . now he was a bit more mundane. He wasn't that shiny new penny everyone wanted to own; he was just an ordinary penny, one corroded and dirty and dented around the edges, one people knew had worth but didn't mind so much if they lost.

He was no longer special.

Jace never thought he would be, but somehow, he was okay with being less: less popular, less noticeable.

Less valuable.

It took so much pressure off from him to be what everyone expected. It allowed him to just be Jace. And sometimes "just Jace" was all he could manage. Especially lately.

Jace's gaze fell to the glass enclosed shelves at the front of the locker room. Trophies from all the years Northwest had won state or gone to districts shone bright gold from within the case. Several of them won by his arm.

A powerful wave of longing crashed over him, nearly drowning him in its intensity. He'd gotten used to trampling his old dream down in his mind, of telling himself it didn't matter.

He'd said it to himself so often he almost believed it.

Jace swallowed and tore his stare away. As much as he tried to deny it, tried to tell himself and everyone else he didn't need it, part of Jace still craved the game. There were times his fingers ached so badly to be around the ball, to feel the pebbled surface and laces against his skin that he didn't know if they'd ever feel normal again. There were moments when he missed the smell of moisture clinging to freshly cut grass, the sound of a shrill whistle against the dark night, the crack of pads on pads, and the crowd chanting his name.

Sometimes he missed it so much he wondered if it had all been a dream in the first place.

Several loud shouts and a deafening bang from behind captured Jace's attention. He turned just in time to catch one of his classmates dive at another, shoving him into the ball cart parked up against the wall. The cart smashed against the cinderblock and tipped onto its side, spilling its contents onto the floor. Balls rolled in all directions, some moving with such speed they clanged and banged against the locker doors.

Two of the coaches rushed from their offices and pulled the boys apart. But Jace wasn't paying attention to them any longer. His gaze had moved from the spectacle of bloody lips and torn knuckles to the brown, oblong ball at his feet. He bent and wrapped his hand around the middle, his fingers finding their home amongst the spaces between the laces. The familiarity of it struck something deep inside of him.

He let out a slow whoosh of breath as he brought the ball up to his chest, the rightness of it in his palm nearly crushed him. Without another thought, Jace exited the locker room. It was the strangest sensation, having that ball in his hands again. For so long it had been a part of him; he'd never really stopped to think how it would feel if it were taken away. He'd never thought it would. But now that it had been, having it there, clutched against him in the only way that was natural to him, brought back all the memories and feelings of how it had been when he and it were one.

One being.

One entity.

The ball, the game, had been such an innate part of who he was, of who he'd always wanted to be, he had no idea how he was functioning now that it was gone.

The other guys exited the locker room behind Jace, filling the gym with excited voices and playful taunts. Jace didn't move, didn't even glance behind him. He waited until the last of them filtered through the main doors, leaving only their echoes behind. When the gym was silent, save for the murmurs coming from inside the coaches' offices within the locker room, Jace let his gaze wander to the colorful maroon and gold banners hanging around the perimeter of the ceiling. It didn't take him long to find the flags with his years on them.

District Champions.

State Champions.

All of them situated side-by-side, showing anyone who cared to look what they'd accomplished for three years in a row. They'd been unrelenting. Unstoppable. There'd been a time when Jace had never even considered the possibility that his high school career would end with anything other than perfection. He was going to win districts and state every year.

His eyes shifted to the empty spot on the wall next to the championship flag from his junior year. The district champs banner that should have been there now adorned the wall of Southeast's gymnasium. Disappointment and regret over what he'd lost still flowed through him.

Jace dropped his bag to the floor and clutched the ball to his chest, his fingers finding just the right spots as he positioned his legs into his familiar throwing stance. And, God, it felt like home. His body knew every twist of every muscle, every tiny move and bend, like it had been born to do only this. Sometimes Jace still thought it was.

Grasping the ball, Jace drew back, his back twisting, shoulder straining, and then, like a slingshot, he drew forward, fingers gripping just so and pushing the ball into the perfect spiral. It sailed through the air, the wind around it whistling in its effort to part fast enough, and slammed into the center of the space left beside last year's banner. Jace's heart crashed in his chest as he watched the nose of the ball impact the exact brick he'd been aiming for. A small grin started to pull at his lips, when the sound of clapping caused him to startle.

Jace whirled around, only to come face-to-face with a man he didn't know. The man stood in the entrance of the gym, his hands clasped together in front of him, but his face half-hidden in the shadow of the bleachers.

"Impressive," the man said. "Even more so than the footage I've seen."

Jace squinted into the dimness, but the action did nothing to alleviate his curiosity. "Who are you?"

"Oh, sorry about that," the man said, adjusting his glasses as he stepped into the light. Even seeing him full on, Jace still had no idea who he was. He wasn't a teacher at the school, and with his flannel shirt, messy, sandy brown hair, and dark jeans, he didn't look like a scout either. The man continued further into the gym, stopping only when he stood directly in front of Jace, his hand extended in greeting. "The name's Luke. Luke Garroway."

Jace frowned, thinking the name sounded familiar but having no idea why. He offered his hand to him anyway. "Jace Wayland," he said.

"Oh, I know who you are," Luke said, removing his hand from Jace's and lifting it to rake through his hair. "I've seen so much video of you, I feel like I know you personally."

"I'm sorry, but," Jace bent to pick up his bag, "do I know you? Your name is familiar but I don't think we've met."

"No," Luke shook his head, "we don't know each other. Though we do have people in common." His eyes sparkled. "But they're not why I'm here."

"Okay . . ."

Luke rubbed the scruff of his chin and peered up at Jace. "Tell me something, Jace."

"What?"

"Why haven't you signed your letter of intent with Northern University?"

Jace blinked. "My . . . what?"

"Your letter of intent," Luke said. "Why haven't you signed it?"

"I'm sorry." Jace shook his head. "I don't know what the he—uh, I don't know what you're talking about. I haven't received anything like that from Northern."

Luke frowned. "Really? There was a confirmation of delivery. Are you sure?"

Jace started to shake his head, wracking his brain for any sort of clue what this man was talking about, and then he stopped, remembering snippets of something from a few weeks prior. Clary sitting in the driver's seat, stopping at the keypad to the gate of his house, reaching out the window for a large, white envelope . . . Jace had later seen that envelope lying on his desk, had even spied the Northern logo in the corner, but had shoved it aside, not wanting to read about how sorry they were for having to withdraw their offer. Not wanting another thing to feel rejected about, he hadn't opened it, hadn't even thought about it again since that day.

Looking up, Jace's eyes widened as he realized what Luke was saying. The man stared back at him, his mouth set into a kind smile. "I—I didn't open it. I thought it was like the others. That it was saying . . ." Jace swallowed, his next words coming out in a whisper. "I didn't open it."

"Well then," Luke reached into his pocket and withdrew a small, white card. He held it out to Jace. "Do me a favor, would you? Take a look at it, read things over, and give me a call." He reached out and clasped Jace on the shoulder with one hand, pressing the card into Jace's palm with the other. "I hope to hear from you soon." Luke winked and turned toward the doors, not looking back as he exited out into the school.

Jace watched him as he went, his mouth hanging open, body stiff and unmoving. What the hell just happened? Once the doors clicked shut, Jace stared down at his hand, the edges of the business card digging into his palm. Bringing it up to his face, Jace's heart thudded as he read the words printed on the front.

Luke Garroway

Head Coach, Northern University Rams Football

Jace's knees weakened and his breath caught in his chest. They still wanted him? After all of this? With everything still hanging in the air, with nothing about his future known, they still wanted to take a chance and sign him? Jace couldn't believe this was happening. It had to be a joke, a cruel and horrific joke. But somehow, deep inside he knew it wasn't.

They did want him.

Someone still wanted him.

He let out a disbelieving laugh, his stomach clenching so hard he almost felt sick. He wanted to call Clary, needed to tell her that things just might be okay after all. Jace reached into his pocket to pull out his phone, but before he got a chance to dial, he heard a familiar voice call out to him.

"Dude! I thought you were giving us a ride."

Jace whirled toward the back doors, spying Sebastian and his sister, Annika, standing just inside.

"Shit," Jace said, shoving his phone back into his pocket. "I forgot." Adrenaline still coursed through his veins and it took everything inside of him not to shout his news for the entire world to hear. But he wanted to tell Clary first. She deserved to be first. "I'm ready now." He adjusted his bag once more and started toward them.

"Gee, Jace, good of you to be ready now, after we just spent ten minutes standing in the freezing parking lot waiting for you," Annika said, her arms crossed over her chest.

Jace let her comment slide right off from him. Usually he enjoyed a bit of banter with Sebastian's younger, bitchy sister, but for the moment, he felt too good to play into it with her. Pushing past her, Jace stepped out into the frigid cold, the bright white making him squint. He made his way out into the parking lot, pulling his keys out of his pocket as he went.

"So," Sebastian said, stepping up next to Jace and keeping his voice low. "I talked with Mitchell and Sanders today."

Jace raised his brows and turned toward his friend. "And?"

Sebastian shook his head. "Nah. Nothing."

Jace sighed and stared down at the ground. "Thanks for asking around, man."

"A whole lot of good it's done. I mean, shit, you'd think someone would remember. The amount of gossip that goes around this hellhole on a daily basis and we're finding shit? I just don't get it. Someone _has to_ remember something."

Annika snorted from behind them. "Oh, please. Half of the gossip in this place is just lies trying to make the popular more popular and the geek more geek. There's nothing of merit to learn here."

Sebastian stopped and turned back to his sister. "But my parties are epic. People should always remember that shit."

Annika gave her brother a disbelieving look. "Is that what you're going on about? That crappy after game party you had when Mom and Dad were visiting Gran?"

Sebastian nodded.

Annika laughed, her head thrown back dramatically. "Oh, God. Do you have any idea how plastered everyone was at that party? Seriously, I've never seen anything like it."

"Wait." Sebastian grabbed her arm. "What the hell do you know about it? I thought you were staying with Mary."

Annika drew her arm away with a huff. "I would have, you dick, but you made me come home by curfew that night." She scowled. "Jesus, how drunk were you?"

"But I . . ." Sebastian said, his confusion clear on his face.

Annika rolled her eyes. "Nice, Seb. That probably explains why I had to share my bed with him." She thrust her thumb in Jace's direction. "Maybe you should keep better track of the shit you say. And your friends."

Sebastian shot Jace a murderous look, and Jace held his hands up in front of him. "Hey, I don't remember—" But then he did. He remembered waking up next to Sebastian's sister, her blonde hair tickling his face. A nagging pulled at him, telling him something, begging for him to remember something. He closed his eyes, squeezed his lids as hard as he could, trying to force the memory to come through.

Darkness shot through his mind, but it wasn't pure darkness. It was shadows and light. It was shapes and muffled sounds and dreamy haze. And then it was light. It was clear.

_"Get up, asshole," a voice said. "You know you're in my bed, right?"_

_ Jace groaned and rolled over onto his back. He didn't know where the hell he was or who the hell's bed he was in. And he didn't care. "Can't," he slurred. Shit, he was so damn drunk._

_ "Well, at least move over. You're hogging the entire bed! And if you're gonna puke, please get it into the trash can."_

_ Jace cracked his lids, spying the shape of a girl with bright blonde hair hanging past her shoulders. "What?"_

_ "Jesus," the voice said, "the one time I actually listen to my dick of a brother and come home on time, I get to share my bed with his loser of a best friend. Just move, Jace." She paused, her face softening somewhat as she looked down at him. "By the way, happy birthday."_

_ Jace rolled over onto his side and peered at the clock on the stand next to the bed. He had to squint against the red glare to read the numbers. 12:06 A.M. He grinned to himself and closed his eyes. Happy birthday to him._

Jace blinked and looked up. "Holy shit." Annika and Sebastian stared at him, eyebrows raised in identical expressions of confusion.

"You okay, dude?" Sebastian asked.

"I was seventeen," Jace said, his lips splitting into a grin. "I was seventeen!"

"Uh, yes," Sebastian said. "Once upon a time you were seventeen. Dude, are you losing it?"

"No, Seb," Jace reached out and grabbed his friend's shoulders. "I _remember_. I remember Anni coming in that night. She told me 'happy birthday' and I looked at the clock. It was six minutes past midnight."

Sebastian's face never lost its confused expression. "Okay, but how does that help?"

Jace squeezed Sebastian's shoulders. "It means that I was with Clary before then. When I was still seventeen. When I was still a minor."

Jace stared at his friend until the confusion cleared from his eyes. "Holy shit," Sebastian said.

Jace looked over at Annika. "Please tell me you remember that."

She stood with her arms crossed over her chest and glanced from Jace to Sebastian and back. "Of course I remember. I wasn't drunk off my ass that night like some people."

Jace let go of Sebastian and moved in front of Annika. "Are you willing to testify to that? Are you willing to tell the court what you know? That you found me alone and asleep in your room at twelve 'o six A.M.?"

He could feel the anxiety coursing through him, hoping against hope that this was the testimony he needed. That this would finally set him free.

Annika stood there for what seemed like forever, before she shrugged her shoulders. "Why not? I mean, it's the truth. You were sleeping alone in my bed, Goldilocks, and I didn't see Strawberry Shortcake anywhere around. I don't have any problem telling those douchenozzles that." She paused. "But it wasn't twelve o'six that I found you."

Jace's stomach bottomed out. "What?" Had he gotten the time wrong? Was his memory just playing tricks on him?

Annika stared at him, giving nothing away. "It was actually eleven fifty-two P.M." A small grin pulled at one corner of her mouth.

Before he knew what was happening, Jace threw his arms around Sebastian's sister and pulled her hard against him, squeezing her. This wasn't a solution, but maybe, just maybe, it was the beginning to one. Jace closed his eyes and hugged the girl in front of him.

"Thank you," he breathed into her hair. "Shit. Oh my God, thank you."

.o.O.o.

The hard chairs outside the principal's office killed Clary's back. She shifted time and time again, trying with everything in her to find some sort of comfort. But nothing she did helped. The muscles in her middle back spasmed and she let out a low groan.

Maia huffed in her seat a few chairs down. "I don't know what you're whining about, you're not the one with the broken nose."

Clary glanced over at the girl and smirked. She looked so pathetic holding the bloody wad of tissues in front of her face. "Neither are you," Clary said. "The nurse said your nose is fine."

"Yeah, well, she doesn't know anything. She's a _school_ nurse. Duh."

Clary rolled her eyes and tried situating herself in her chair once more. It creaked and groaned under her weight.

"God," Maia said. "Could you just stop before you break the thing? You don't need to take your frustration over your rapidly growing body out on poor office furniture."

"How about you just shut your mouth, before I break that too?"

Maia turned and glared, purplish bruises already starting to line her eyes. "You think you're hot shit now that you've nailed a quarterback, don't you?"

Clary leaned her head onto the back of the chair and closed her eyes. "Oh, God, Maia. Really? Is that what this is about?"

"No. I could care less who you screw and . . . whatever else you do. This is about the squad's reputation. This is about how you didn't think about any of the rest of us when you were spreading your legs."

Clary lifted her head and stared at Maia in incredulity. "I don't know what the hell you're talking about, or why you think what's happened to me has anything to do with the squad whatsoever."

"That's what you don't understand!" Maia said. "You think this is just all about you! But this affects a lot of people in your life, Clary. We had to pull out of regionals because of you!"

"Oh my God." Clary shook her head. "I gave you plenty of time to find a replacement, Maia. Don't put this on me."

"A replacement? Are you joking? There's no one we can do the basket with that's going to get as high as you. That was our winning move, Clary. Without that we are just like every other squad out there. Average."

"You've got to be kidding me," Clary whispered under her breath. She turned to give Maia another piece of her mind, but froze at who she saw standing in the doorway. She sat up straight and swallowed back the bile climbing her throat. "Dad? What are you doing here?"

Clary's father moved all the way into the office, his suit pants rustling in the quiet room. "One's parents are usually called in on disciplinary matters, Clarissa."

"But I thought they'd call—"

"Your mother?" Her father stood in front of her. "Not likely, since she's not in town. So I suppose this will be up to me."

Clary opened her mouth to speak, when the office door opened again and Maia's parents rushed inside.

"Great," Clary murmured and rested her face in her hand.

"Mr. and Mrs. Roberts? Mr. Morgenstern? Could you and both your children please come inside?" Principal Talbot called from her office door.

Clary sighed and stood, following the rest of the group into the small office. Maia and her parents immediately commandeered the three chairs situated in front of the desk, leaving Clary and her father standing near the door.

Clary's father cleared his throat. "Perhaps you could give my daughter one of your chairs. Someone is her condition should not be made to stand while you sit."

Clary stared at her father in disbelief. Did he just . . . stick up for her? She blinked.

Maia's father turned around and glared at them both. "And why should we? She's the reason we're here. She physically assaulted my daughter." He eyed Clary, and she instinctively crossed her arms over her stomach. "Besides, her . . . predicament is not our problem." And then he turned back toward the desk.

"Now, sirs," Principal Talbot said, standing and leaning over her desk. "Let's put the petty arguing aside for a moment to discuss what has happened here today."

Maia whimpered and leaned into her mother.

Clary muttered, "Oh, brother," under her breath.

"Miss Morgenstern, you may come take my chair, since none of the other have been offered," the principal offered as she eyes the Roberts family.

Clary's face flamed. "Oh, uh, no, it's okay. I can stand, really." Her back ached and her son was using her bladder as a punching bag, but there was no way she was going to sit in the principal's chair.

"You're sure?"

Clary nodded, shrinking back into the corner of the office.

Principal Talbot sighed. "All right, let's get started then. As you were all informed when you were called, we had a bit of a situation today in the hall."

"A situation?" Mrs. Roberts said. "That girl nearly broke my daughter's nose!"

"Her nose is fine, Mrs. Roberts. The nurse assured us it's just bruised."

"Still. I don't want my daughter fearing for her safety at school!"

Clary fought hard not to roll her eyes again. She'd been doing it so much that day that she was actually starting to get a headache.

"I assure you there is no reason for concern." Principal Talbot held up her hands.

"No cause for concern!" Mrs. Roberts shrieked. "Have you looked at my daughter's face? How can you say that?"

Principal Talbot looked Mrs. Roberts right in the eye. "We strive to be as fair as possible in these situations, and I have taken the time to interview as many of the students that were there as possible. The majority have corroborated the story that your daughter, was taunting Miss Morgenstern and saying derogatory things about her unborn child."

"Oh, for Christ's sake." Mr. Roberts sat straighter in his chair. "What does she expect coming to school like that? Does she think she can just walk around and no one will notice? That no one will care? I realize people these days are more accepting to this sort of thing than we used to be, but should we be? She shouldn't even be here."

"Excuse me," Clary's father stepped forward. "Are you saying my daughter should not be allowed in the same school as yours because she's pregnant?"

Maia's father turned around. "That's exactly what I'm saying. Letting her parade this around in front of all the other students sets a precedence that this is acceptable and okay."

"Do we live in the stone ages? Be reasonable. She is entitled to an education, just like anyone else." Her father's voice rose.

"Oh, come on, Morgenstern," Maia's father continued, his words becoming more enraged as well. "We all know how you really feel about this situation. It's been all over the papers for weeks."

"That is a completely different issue!"

"Oh, yes. We all know _that _too."

Clary shrank back further. She could not believe this was happening. Was this man really her father? The man who'd basically kicked her out of her own home? The one who'd had her boyfriend arrested and thrown in jail for statutory rape? She could not reconcile this man with that one.

The shouting in the room grew so loud, Clary had to cover her ears. Finally, Principal Talbot called it to a halt.

"Enough!" she shouted. "That's quite enough." She smoothed her hands over her pencil skirt. "I realize emotions tend to run high in instances such as these, but this is a school and there are other students within hearing range. Now, let's get back to the issue at hand. As much as I'd like to slap both of these girls on the wrist and let this go, there are policies in place for things such as this." Principal Talbot gazed at both of the girls. "We have a no tolerance policy on both physical violence and bullying. We cannot let this incident slide without punishment."

The room grew silent, and Clary bit at her bottom lip.

"Miss Roberts," Principal Talbot addressed Maia. "In addition to the three day suspension you will both receive, you will also be required to spend the next ninety days working for the local youth outreach program that specifically targets victims of bullies."

"Ninety days!" Maia said. "But . . . that's almost the whole rest of the school year! What about cheerleading?"

"That's not my problem," Principal Talbot said. "Work it out. The local chapter is awaiting your parents' call to set up your times. You will not be allowed back in school without written acknowledgement from my contact of your compliance."

Maia slumped back in her chair, and Clary wanted to laugh.

"Miss Morgenstern," Principal Talbot said, and Clary met her gaze. "As much as I do not like to admit to there being any merit to any of the vitriol spewed by Mr. Roberts . . ." she eyed him disdainfully, "He is correct in saying your presence here since word got out about your situation has been distracting. I've heard some of the things the others have been saying. I've seen the taunts and laughter for myself. Children can be so incredibly cruel to one another." Her stare softened. "I don't agree with it, and I wish there was a way we could make things better for you here. But we can't. We can't be everywhere and watching everything. Because of this, I just do not feel this place is safe for you or your unborn child any longer. I'm going to insist that for the duration of your pregnancy, you take advantage of our online homeschooling program."

"Wh—what?" Clary said. "I don't—"

"Now, wait just a minute," Clary's father said. "You can't do that. You can't kick her out of school for being pregnant. That's not legal—"

"The proper punishment for her offense here today, Mr. Morgenstern, is expulsion," Principal Talbot said. "Would you rather we take that course, because I'm fully within my rights to exercise it. I'm trying to do the best I can with the situation I'm presented with. These are the best options for all involved."

Clary's father's jaw clenched. "But the girl who did the taunting, the one who took it upon herself to make disdainful remarks to my daughter about herself and her unborn child gets off with some sort of community service? Why doesn't she get the same punishment? Why does only my daughter have to be outcasted? It does not seem we're getting much of a lesson at all in Miss Roberts' case."

"Miss Roberts did not raise her hand," Principal Talbot replied. "Physical violence cannot be tolerated, provoked or not. I'm sorry, sir, but my decision stands. It is the online schooling or expulsion. You may choose."

Clary couldn't speak. She'd never, not once, thought this would be the outcome when she took action against Maia earlier. All she'd known was she couldn't let this bitch talk about her son that way. But . . . homeschool? Expulsion? Were those really the only choices?

She wrapped her arms around herself, holding herself together the best she could when all she felt like doing was falling apart. Her legs were weak and her breaths came shallow and hard. She'd been trying so hard not to think about that night like it was a mistake, like what came from it was an error. But in times like these, when she watched everything her life had been about before crumble around her, she couldn't help herself. How many things did one misstep, one lapse in judgment, one moment where she'd thought with her heart and hormones instead of her head have to destroy? How many consequences to one night did she and Jace have to endure? Was there ever an end, or would life keep piling them on, over and over, until the both of them were buried beneath it?

The room around her had erupted into chaos once more, but Clary didn't hear any of it. She was done listening, done hearing her father sound like a man who was there for and supported his daughter, done listening to Maia and her parents talk down to and about her while she stood right there. She was just . . . done.

Steeling herself with a breath, Clary turned from the enraged adults and, without a word, slipped from the room. The secretary in the front office eyed her as she passed, but Clary did not meet her gaze. Her cheeks and eyes burned, and she could feel the panic rising in her chest. It was all she could do to hold it all in as she walked down the hall and toward the parking lot doors.

When she reached the end, she stopped and pulled her phone from her pocket. Her hands shook as she clicked on his name. It rang only twice before his voice floated through the receiver and filled her with a sense of belonging and rightness. He sounded strangely happy. He so rarely sounded that way. Clary didn't want to trample any moment of his happiness, but she didn't know where else to go, who else to call.

"Hey, baby," Jace said, a smile in his voice. "I thought we weren't going to talk until later?"

Clary closed her eyes and pictured the way he looked when he smiled, how the edges of his mouth disappeared into tiny slits in his skin, how his eyes turned warm, molten gold and sparkled like the sun reflected on water, and how he often leaned in and kissed her with it.

"We weren't," she said, fighting so hard to rein her emotion in. "I just miss you. Can you come get me now?"

There was nothing on the other end for a few moments. "Is everything okay?"

Clary didn't want to lie and say no, but she didn't want to erase his seemingly jovial mood either. She fought against the hitch she felt building in her throat. "Can't I just want to see my boyfriend sooner rather than later?"

Jace chuckled and the sound filled her with longing, for him, for the feeling of calm he always brought her. "What have I told you about sweet talking me over the phone?"

"That was through text, not over the phone." Clary choked back unwanted tears.

"Same difference," he said.

"So are you coming or what?"

"You know I am."

They said their goodbyes and as Clary tucked her phone into her pocket, footsteps approached from behind. She spun toward the sound. Her father stood several feet away, his hands clasped tightly in front of him.

"Clarissa," he said.

Clary swallowed against the overwhelming tightness in her throat. "Look, Dad, I know what you're going to say, okay? But can we just . . . not right now?"

He tilted his head to the side. "And what is it you seem so sure I'm going to say?"

She threw her hands up. "Oh, I don't know. The usual? You told me so. I'm getting what I deserved. You're disappointed in me. Etc., etc., etc. Have I left anything out?"

"Actually," he smoothed his hands over the front of his suit coat and met her gaze, "in light of recent developments, I was thinking we should discuss you coming home."

.o.O.o.

Jace stared across the booth, studying the shadows playing the planes of Clary's face as she picked at the half-eaten food on her plate. In the forty-five minutes since he'd picked her up from the parking lot of her school, she'd barely said ten words.

He reached over and swiped his thumb across the top of her hand. But before he'd made a good three passes, she pulled her hand away and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. He sighed and sat back in his seat.

"Is something wrong?" he asked.

Clary glanced up at him, her eyes big and round, but duller than normal. "Why would you think that?" She grabbed a fry and absently pushed it around her plate.

"Well, for starters, in the time I've known you, I've never seen you leave that much food on your plate." He pointed to the meal in front of her. "And second, the general silence emanating from your side of the booth is particularly enlightening."

She tossed the fry down and turned her face toward the window. The dying light outside made her frown appear even deeper. Jace watched her reflection in the glass, spying several amorous couples making their way toward the restaurant from the parking lot beyond it.

Clary's expression darkened and a small crease formed between her eyes. "I'm fine," she said. But her face and her words did not agree.

"Clary, come on." Jace leaned forward, placing his elbows on the Formica, and reached across for her. His fingers brushed down her forearm and goosebumps rose on her skin. "How am I supposed to—"

"Can we go?" she said, interrupting him as she turned to face him once more. Her cheeks were pale and her eyes glassy. "I don't really want to still be here once the Love Day suckers start getting all mushy."

Jace sat there for a few seconds, his mouth hanging open a little as he tried to figure out what to say. He sort of understood Clary's aversion to the whole Valentine's Day bullshit—it had never been his favorite "holiday" either—but this time . . . this time he had someone he really cared about. Someone he was proud to be with. He wouldn't have minded doing something special: going out on a real date, buying her jewelry or flowers or . . . anything, really. But she'd been adamant, and he'd obliged. Now he wasn't so sure he should have. He was no good at this boyfriend shit and had no damn idea what to do when she acted in ways that were opposite from what he was used to. Maybe she'd pulled one of those "tell you one thing but mean the exact opposite" things he'd heard girls loved to use so much, and she really _wanted_ him to go all out.

Shit.

He hoped to hell not. Girls were confusing as hell.

But the longer he studied her: the way she wouldn't meet his eyes, the way her bottom lip was getting more teeth action than her food had, and the way her hands had remained in fists if she wasn't using them to eat, told him this was something else. Something more. Something she clearly didn't want to talk about.

"Yeah," he said. "We can go."

Clary nodded and awkwardly maneuvered herself from the bench. He reached out to help her up, but she ignored his gesture. Jace slowly withdrew his hand and stood as well.

After paying their bill and leaving a tip, Jace escorted Clary to the car, depositing her in the passenger seat and jogging around to the driver's side. He slid into his seat and started the car. Clary still said nothing and continued to stare at her lap.

Jace placed his hands on the steering wheel and mimicked Clary's pose. "Do you want me to take you home?"

She let out a breath but did not answer.

"Because you don't seem to want to be here."

"No," she said, her voice quiet and low. "I don't want to go home."

"Do you want to go to my house?" He turned his head and glanced up at her. She was still looking down at her lap, her fingers twisted together and glued to her legs. Everything about her screamed 'don't touch me!' "My dad's there, but it's not like he acknowledges my existence lately, so we'd be left alone."

She shook her head.

Jace groaned and ran a hand through his hair. "Baby, could you help me out here, because I'm a little lost. I—I don't know what the hell is going on or what the hell to do right now. You seem like you don't want to be here, or . . . anywhere, for that matter. Or," he paused, "is it me? Did I do something wrong?"

"No," she said, her words barely audible. "You didn't do anything wrong. You're perfect." And then her voice lowered even further, and she added, "Like always."

Jace couldn't deny the frustration rising inside of him. He didn't understand why she couldn't just tell him what was wrong. He'd been so excited to see her tonight, to tell her all the things that had happened during the day, to give her a bit of the hope back that both of them seemed to have lost over the past months. But as soon as he'd seen her face, he'd known. He'd known it wasn't the time.

"Clary—"

"Could we . . . maybe . . ." she said, "go to the fountain?" Finally, she met his eyes. "You know, the one you used to go to with your mom?"

Jace blinked. "But it's twenty degrees. You hate the cold."

"I want to go."

Jace didn't ask her again, he simply pulled out of the parking lot onto the street. His confusion didn't let up the entire drive to the garden, as Clary still didn't speak. The vibe he was getting from her had the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end and his stomach rolling.

The ride didn't take long, ten minutes at most. When he pulled in to park near the entrance to the wooded area surrounding the garden, Clary was up and out of the car before he could even shut down the engine. Jace scrambled out of his seat and into the biting air after her. Clary didn't pause to wait for him, nor did she hold out her hand for him to take. Jace became more and more uneasy the closer they moved to the trees.

Clary entered first, and Jace wanted so badly to take her hand, not just for his own comfort but for her safety as well. He remembered the first time they'd come to the garden—the first time they'd really met and she'd told him about the baby—and how she'd tripped over a root or low branch as they'd made their way through. Now, the bigger she got, the worse her balance became, and Jace couldn't deny he was afraid of a repeat performance. But since she didn't seem too interested in being touched, Jace stayed a few inches behind her and held his hands at the ready. Just in case.

Moments later, the trees opened onto the garden. It looked different without greenery covering every inch of space. In the winter it was just a cold and uninviting bunch of gray stone, brown sticks and leaves, and white. Jace stopped at the edge of the circular stone walkway, shoved his hands in his pockets, and watched as Clary moved closer to the center. He couldn't help but notice the contrast of her black coat and bright red hair against all the monotony of their surroundings. How bright and beautiful and alive she was.

She stopped next to the fountain and lifted her face to the sky, her eyes closed. Tiny flakes of snow, nearly the same color as her skin, lifted in the wind from a branch of one of the nearby trees and landed on her cheeks and in her hair. Jace wanted to be those flakes, to be the one slipping over her skin and tangling in her fiery locks. He wanted to be the only one to know how that felt. It amazed him that after all this time and all the shit they'd gone through together already that he could feel this way.

She brought him to his knees. All six foot plus of him. Still. Always.

He would do anything, give up everything, for her. If only she'd let him.

After a moment of standing there with her eyes clenched shut, Clary opened them and stared up into the overcast sky. Her expression was still distant.

"I thought maybe it would feel the same," she said. "Coming here. I thought maybe it would remind me."

Jace fought to keep himself rooted where he'd stopped. "Remind you of what?" he asked.

"How it felt before." Clary glanced around. "Before I forgot."

Jace gripped his hair in frustration. "God, Clary, would you please tell me what the hell is going on?"

"Sometimes I regret it," she whispered.

"Regret what?"

"That night. Sometimes I regret that night," she said. "Sometimes I regret going to the party at all. Sometimes I regret going up to that bathroom with you. Sometimes I regret not taking the morning after pill. And sometimes I regret saying I want to keep the baby." Clary looked back at him and her cheeks were wet with snow and tears. "And I always, _always_ feel absolutely awful for thinking any of it for even a second. But not even that stops the thoughts from coming, over and over and over again. It doesn't stop this horrible, aching wrongness lodged right here." She placed her open palm over her heart. "I'm trying so hard to be okay with it," she whispered. "To accept what I've done and the choices I've made and move on. I'm trying so hard to make the best of it and be happy. And sometimes I am. But sometimes . . . sometimes I'm confused and sad and so incredibly pissed off that I can't think straight. And it's not fair. It's not fair to you. Or him." She placed her hand over her stomach. "It's not fair to anyone."

Jace swallowed, his heart pounding so hard it hurt. "What are you saying, Clary?"

She lifted her hands and dropped them back to her sides. "I don't know," she said. "I just . . . I miss me, you know? I miss how I used to feel and who I used to be. I miss my old life. I miss being a kid. I even miss my stupid parents." She shook her head. "I can hardly remember what it was like before, and I thought maybe coming here would help. Because that night was the last night I felt like me."

"Clary—"

"Do you know what I did today?" she interrupted. "I punched Maia Roberts in the face for calling our son a bastard."

"What? She called him what?" A flare of heat ignited in Jace's belly.

Clary didn't repeat the offensive term and continued on with her story. "I punched her, and it felt so good, you know? Like . . . like I was finally me again. Like I was that sassy girl that didn't take any shit from anyone again. And then I got expelled from school—"

"What? How—"

"Well, technically I'm not expelled. But I am . . . It's a long story and I don't want to get into it now, but it's not even that. It's everything. It's how everyone still stares at me when I walk down the hall. It's how people still call me names and talk about me behind my back and even right in front of my face sometimes. And I'm so tired, Jace. I'm so tired." More tears streamed down her cheeks, and Jace wanted to go to her so badly it was almost physically impossible to stop himself. "I just want to go back sometimes, you know? I want to go back and change it all so the looks and taunts and laughs will stop. I want to go back so I fit into all my clothes and don't have some grotesque, jagged map all over my skin. I want to take my boyfriend to a damn school dance and not worry about everyone staring at him because my asshole father charged him with rape! And I'd really, really like to not look like a beached whale while doing it!"

There were no words to express what Jace was thinking or feeling. It had been obvious for a long time that the changes to Clary's body had really been bothering her, but he hadn't known the rest of it.

He hadn't known she regretted him.

Jace looked down at the ground. Grey stone peeked out from beneath a thin layer of powdery snow, only disturbed by their footprints. He clenched and unclenched his fists as he stared, trying his hardest to push back the hurt building inside of him. He understood what she was saying, knew it hadn't been said to hurt him, but it had all the same.

"Don't you ever regret it?" Clary whispered.

"You know which part I regret, Clary." He lifted his gaze and she glanced away. "That's it. That's the only part I'll ever regret. I'll never regret you or our son. Not ever."

Clary swiped at the tears on her face and stared at the grayish-brown scenery surrounding them. "You think I'm horrible, don't you?"

"No. You know I don't."

"How can you not?" she said. "I do. I think I'm horrible."

Jace couldn't take the distance between them any longer and took a few steps closer.

"Because I know you, and I know what kind of person you are. No, I don't understand this; I don't understand how hard this is for you, because I don't have to do what you do. I don't have to walk those halls with the evidence of what we did right there for anyone to see."

A tear fell over her cheek, and Jace reached out to wipe it away, his hand pausing just before he touched her skin, waiting, begging her with his eyes to just _let him._ She paused for a moment, and then slowly, painfully slowly, she pressed her face against his palm. Relief washed over him as he brushed his thumb across her cheek and cradled her face in his hand.

"But as much as I can't do that," he continued, "I'm here with you. I'm right here." He grabbed her hand and laid it against his chest, covering it with his palm and holding it tight against him. "Every time you're upset, every time you cry, every time you hurt, I hurt too. I feel it too. And I wish I could take it away, but I can't. I can't do anything but this. I know it's not enough. I _know_. But it's all I've got. So, God, will you just let me do this?"

Clary's shoulders shook with a sob and she lunged forward, burying her face into Jace's chest and grabbing the sides of his coat with her hands. "I'm sorry," she said, her voice muffled in his coat. "I just feel so out of control, like I have no choice in anything anymore. Like all this stuff is happening and there's nothing I can do about any of it."

"I know." Jace didn't say anything more, because he didn't have to. She knew he knew. They both knew.

Clary sniffed and turned her face to the side, resting her cheek against his heart. "I don't regret you," she said. "Sometimes I regret the way everything happened, but I've never regretted you."

Jace closed his eyes and pressed his lips to the top of her head, breathing in her scent and savoring the feel of her in his arms. "We're going to be okay, you know."

"How do you know? There's still so much not in our hands."

Jace held her tighter. "Because I just do."

Clary pulled back and gazed up at him. Her eyes shone with unshed tears. "Why do I get the feeling you know something I don't?"

Optimism rose up inside of him. Now, _now_ was the time to tell her. Now was the time to give both of them a little of the peace they both deserved.

Jace grinned and bent to kiss her, his mouth lingering for a moment against hers as he tasted the saltiness of her tears on her lips. "Because I do," he whispered against her, kissed her again and pulled back.

Her eyes were full of questions and her mouth puckered into one of them, but no words escaped.

Jace wrapped his arm around her and tucked her into his side. "Come on. Let's get out of the cold and I'll tell you everything."

As they started toward the tree line, Jace glanced back once more at the cupid statue situated in the center of the fountain. It stood tall and proud, its arrow pointed right at them, symbolizing the way his feelings for Clary had pierced him, sharp and unrelenting, all those months ago. He was reminded once again what day it was and how he'd worried that he'd made a mistake in honoring her wishes to not celebrate a holiday she didn't believe in. But he knew now that wasn't exactly true. They were going to celebrate. They were going to celebrate the shit out of this day. Because, in his mind, there was no gift he could have bought, no bouquet of flowers as beautiful, no candy as sweet, no words or actions or dates as important or needed as what he was going to give her now, what he was going to give them both.

Hope.

* * *

><p><em>So, there's a whole lot of plot happening here. And yes, a teensy bit of fluff (you're welcome). <em>

_It seems as though when things are looking up for one member of our beloved twosome, it spirals for the other. :( But, we've got some good things happening! (Jace, you are just the SWEETEST thing ever!)_

_And we've got some hurt. _

_Poor Clary. Really, these feelings she's having and suffering with are so true to pregnant women. They may seem petty and vain to those who have not been there, but we ALL feel it—at least some of it. And Clary is a very young girl, just barely getting her womanly body, only to have it destroyed already. I remember some of those feelings vividly (and even still when I look in the mirror and see the "reminders")._

_Maia needs to be punched in the face AGAIN and in the boob. Seriously. And before people complain she's just a cliché "Mean Girl," she's really not. Her issues stem from a place of jealousy (In the past, Clary was easily liked and accepted while she was not) and anger (the cheerleading stuff IS petty, but it is the only place Maia has felt powerful). I'm not defending her, because I hate her, but just clarifying that she DOES have reasons, though convoluted and stupid._

_Jace got some good news. Yay! It's about time something good happened to the boy!_

_But Valentine . . . what are you up to? I'm side-eyeing you . . ._

_For those wondering, Clary is just shy of 24 weeks, or 6 months, pregnant. We're getting there!_

_Until next time, XOXO ~ddpjclaf_


	27. Devastate Me

******The character names of The Mortal Instruments are owned by Cassandra Clare. The original content, ideas and intellectual property of this story are owned by ddpjclaf, 2011. Please do not copy, reproduce, or translate without express written permission.******

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Twenty-Seven - "Devastate Me"<strong>

_Well, here it is, the chapter I have so lovingly referred to as "The Monster Chapter" on Twitter. Seriously, it's freaking huge._

_Before we begin I'd like to take a moment to thank all of you who have stuck with me throughout this story (and to all of you who are new to it). I know it's an emotionally tough journey, and I know that some of you have had a hard time reading so much angst and hurt. So, I just want to let you know how much I appreciate you all, and how much I appreciate your comments and encouragements as I try to churn this out. We're getting there._

_Also, a big thanks to ktut for pre-reading and lightlacedwithbeauty for beta'ing. I adore these girls._

_Pregnancy progression as of this chapter: approx. 26 weeks_

_Chapter songs:_

_**I Feel Pretty/Unpretty – Glee cover (I like this version for the differing meanings behind the two songs. Unpretty – TLC; I Feel Pretty – West Side Story) (Scene 1)_

_**Somewhere Only We Know – Keane (Scene 2)_

_**Candles – Hey Monday (Scene 3)_

_**Take a Bow – Rhianna (Scene 3—lets forget this is about cheating and focus on the message of not believing an excuse or remorse, mkay?)_

_**Cough Syrup – Young the Giant (Scene 4)_

_**The Only Exception – Paramore (Scene 5)_

* * *

><p>"This shirt is totally adorable," Isabelle said, plucking a black, form-fitting t-shirt from the shopping bag near the foot of her bed.<p>

Clary raised her brow and stared at her friend. "It's a t-shirt."

"Yeah, but it looks like a regular t-shirt. Not one of those poufy tent shirts preggos usually wear." She dug in the bag a little further, her dark hair falling forward and hiding her face. "Oooh, and this!" She pulled out a white, full-length tiered skirt. "I _love_ this."

Clary sighed and leaned back against the headboard of Isabelle's bed. "Yeah, well, when you get knocked up someday I'll give it to you."

Isabelle ignored her and thrust the skirt at her. "Put it on. I wanna see."

Clary groaned and tipped her head back, staring up at the ceiling. "Why? It's just a skirt."

"Just do it," Isabelle said. "I'm sick of seeing you in my brother's sweatpants. Sweatpants are not fashionable, Clary. Ever. They're for . . . sweating."

Clary rolled her eyes and heaved herself off the bed—a feat that was growing harder and harder with each passing day. Turning her back to her friend, she slipped out of her sweatpants and pulled the skirt over her legs, the band resting just under her belly. She had to admit, the elastic in the skirt was infinitely more comfortable than the one in the sweatpants, but the fact that they were maternity wear did not help her floundering self-image at all.

Neither did the fact that her father had bought them for her.

It had been the strangest thing, finding him standing on the Lightwood's porch with three shopping bags in his hands. He'd cleared his throat and held them out to her. "I asked Margot to pick up some things for you."

Clary had taken the bags from him reluctantly and glanced inside, spying the array of maternity pants, shirts, skirts, and undergarments. "Clothes?"

"After I saw you last week wearing . . . well," he gestured to the oversized t-shirt and sweatpants she still wore, "that, I assumed you were probably in need of something new."

Suspicion blossomed inside of her as she'd watched him fidget in the Lightwood's doorway. This wasn't the man she knew.

Even now, hours later, as she looked down at the skirt flowing around her ankles, she felt it. That stitch of question, of uncertainty, of mistrust. Why did he care what she wore anyway?

Clary turned around in a slow circle for Isabelle, her hands out to her sides. "Well? Better?"

"Uh huh. I even like it with that ratty tank top you've got going on there."

Clary flipped her off and plopped back down on the bed, deciding to push thoughts of her father out of her mind, and grabbed her laptop.

Isabelle stood, placing her hands on her hips, as she looked down at her friend, her brows coming together a bit in the middle. "Are you sure you don't want to come to the game? I promise Maia won't say anything to you. If she even tries, I'll give her a fat lip to go along with her swollen nose."

Clary shook her head, thinking that the final basketball game of the season was the last place on Earth she wanted to be. "No. I have to get a little homework done. This online schooling is a lot more work than I thought it was going to be."

"Homework on a Friday night? That's pathetic even for you, Clary. Tell me you at least have some sort of sexy rendezvous with Loverboy or something."

"Well, that's me. Miss Pathetic. And no." Clary frowned and opened the portal to her new school. The blue and gold banner stretching across the top still made her stomach turn. "Now, run along so I can be a good little homeschool student."

Isabelle let out a defeated sigh. "Okay, I get it. You don't want to go. You don't have to claim 'unavoidable homework' just to get out of it." She paused. "But . . . I could always skip and stay here—"

"Iz," Clary interrupted, meeting her friend's concerned stare. "Just go, okay? It's fine."

"But it's your last night here. I feel like we should hang out and . . . I don't know . . . look up sexy boy pictures or read some smutty love story together or something."

Clary forced out a laugh. "As lovely as that sounds, I'm sure. Just go." Quietly she added, "Please."

Isabelle's expression softened, as she nodded in understanding and turned to go, but paused at the door. "I really do like the skirt. You look pretty."

Clary's cheeks warmed at the compliment, but she said nothing in return as Isabelle exited and closed the door behind her. Clary's own eyes, reflected in the full-length mirror attached to the back of Isabelle's door, stared back at her. Her heart quickened against her ribs as hot disgust flooded through her. Even still, she could not bear to look at her own reflection. It didn't matter how much pretty she layered on top, how many times other people told her she was beautiful to them, the ugly had seeped through her skin and burrowed straight into her heart.

Standing from her position on the bed, Clary moved over to the door, averting her eyes from the nearing double of herself, and opened it back up to direct the mirror's truths away from her. Once it was hidden, she could breathe easier. Making her way back to the bed, she plopped back down onto her side and focused on the lesson on her laptop.

It had been almost ten days since Clary had been "recommended" to start the online homeschool rather than attend regular classes. Seven of those had consisted of her father and her locked in a standoff over her coming home. She didn't want him to think she was just going to forget everything, come home, and play by his rules now, because she wasn't. There were certain things he couldn't have power over anymore. Things she wouldn't let him control.

In the end, what either of them wanted didn't matter in the least. The school district insisted an adult, legal family member oversee her homeschooling. So as much as Clary wanted to remain a stubborn teenager and fight him, that fact made any argument to the contrary a moot point.

Clary's gaze drifted to the bags sitting at the foot of Isabelle's bed and a chill raked over her. She'd had them packed for days, but today marked the final day she was allowed to stay. Tomorrow she'd be going back home. No more excuses. She'd already stalled long enough.

With a sigh, Clary looked back at the screen, squinted, and tried to remove all thoughts not centered around the lesson on the computer. A task that was becoming more and more difficult, with the voices from downstairs floating through the open door, and her son playing soccer with her bladder.

Grabbing a pair of headphones from the nightstand beside the bed, Clary pushed them into her ears and soft strands of music floated through the tiny speakers. She closed her eyes, tapped her fingers to the rhythm against the part of her belly receiving the hardest beating, and let the melody tune everything else out: the noises in the house, the thoughts in her brain, the worries of her heart. As she calmed, the baby did too, his kicks and wiggles slowing until they were practically non-existent. For at least fifteen minutes, she lay there with her eyes closed, letting her mind slowly clear, and her son fall asleep.

It felt so good to just be empty for once, to be still, nothing running through her brain or kicking against her skin. It was just her and the music.

When she felt like she was ready to fully concentrate, she opened her eyes, startling when she caught sight of a figure resting against the doorframe.

"Jesus!" she said, tugging the buds from her ears and resting her hand over her pounding heart. "You scared the crap out of me."

Jace stood unmoving in the doorway, his jean-clad legs crossed at the ankles and his arms folded over his chest. "Sorry," he said. "I thought maybe you were sleeping."

"So you watched me? That's kinda creepy, you know."

Jace said nothing, but his mouth lifted slightly in one corner.

"How'd you get in here?" Clary asked after noticing the utter silence of the house.

"Isabelle let me in before she left for the game," he said. "What were you doing, then, if not on your way to droolsville?"

"Studying."

"That didn't look like studying to me. It looked like slacking."

"I was getting in the mood."

"Really?" Jace lifted one brow and pushed himself away from the wall, taking a slow step toward her.

Clary rolled her eyes. "Yeah, to _study_."

"That's a shame," Jace said, stopping at the edge of the bed and dropping his hands down to the mattress. He grinned wider as he pulled on the end of the comforter and Clary slid down to her back.

The bed sank on either side as Jace climbed onto it and slowly moved up Clary's body, pausing only when his palms pressed into the blankets at her head. His face hovered above hers, his eyes filled with the same mischievous mirth as his mouth.

Clary's stomach twisted like it always did when he looked at her that way.

"Although . . ." Jace bent down to whisper in her ear, "I'm glad to hear you weren't getting in the mood for things I'd prefer to be involved in." He feathered his lips along her jaw, until he reached the corner of her mouth and brushed a kiss there. "Very glad." Clary shivered as he switched to the other side and pressed another soft kiss there, before pulling back just a little and sweeping her bottom lip with his tongue.

Unease took over the pleasant twist and ignited in Clary's stomach. She pushed against Jace's chest and he moved back further. He looked down at her, his eyes dark and hooded, the way they always were when he wanted her. And then he blinked and that desire was replaced with something else, something Clary was noticing more and more as she, more frequently in the last month, rebuffed his advances.

She swallowed against the myriad of feelings churning inside of her: fear, anxiety, desire of her own, and unbelievable self-doubt. She didn't want to upset him, but she didn't know how to explain what she felt inside, either. How when he kissed her and touched her that way, the only thing she could think about anymore was what he'd see when he undressed her.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, her voice breathless and small. "I thought you were meeting with Stephen about Annika."

"I did," Jace said, trying to cover the disappointment Clary had already seen in his eyes. He dipped down to kiss her jaw, her neck, the length of skin along her collarbone. "It was short. I'm not spending more time with him than I need to. Besides, I wanted to see my girl." His lips moved once again to the top of her shoulder, the curve of her elbow, the tips of her fingers. "I couldn't stop thinking about her all day, and I thought maybe I'd come over and kiss her a little." Shifting, he hovered over her once more and moved to her other side, kissing down her body in the same pattern. "And maybe touch her," he whispered, tucking his finger under the strap of her tank top and pushing it down her arm, before lowering his mouth to the bared skin of her shoulder.

"But . . ." Clary fought against two sides of herself: the one loving the feel of his mouth, and the other screaming at her to slow it down, to stop it entirely. "What did Stephen say?"

"I don't want to talk about him right now," Jace mumbled into her flesh.

"Well then, what do you want to talk about?"

Jace glanced up at her, his eyes so dark they barely looked gold anymore. "I don't want to talk at all." He tugged on the neck of her shirt, his fingers grazing the top of her breast, as he kissed a line down her neck to the valley between her cleavage.

Clary's breath caught and she closed her eyes, willing the heat of his lips to chase away the rising dark. Bringing her hands up, she let them glide over his arms, until her fingers passed his shoulders and threaded into his hair. Jace kissed back up the underside of her neck, over her chin, and claimed her mouth, parting her lips and wasting no time pushing his tongue inside. Clary fought against the apprehension building up inside her, as Jace's fingers traced across her collarbone, up her neck, then softly, carefully cupped her jaw, his thumb brushing the underneath.

This was okay. Kissing was okay. Touching her face was okay.

Clary let her hands slip from his hair and cradle his face, her fingers brushing down his neck, resting at the point where his pulse was going crazy. Her blood rushed through her veins and her heartbeat pounded in her head. She tried to tell herself it was just her hormones, that she was just getting excited, but she could feel the _other_ leaking inside her, turning her stomach into a knotted fist.

Jace's hand slipped from her face and ran down the length of her arm, falling to the space that used to dip in at her waist, and even lower to her thigh. He fisted the soft material covering her legs. "I like this skirt." He pulled it up, the fabric brushing along her calf, over her knee, until there was nowhere left to go and his hand was on her bare skin. "I like this better."

His breath grew sharper, faster, and Clary's did too, but for completely different reasons. Jace shifted and his knee came up between her legs, parting them and making space for him to fit tighter against her. Clary could feel what he wanted, and exactly how much he wanted it, against the outside of her leg. And as he kissed her harder and deeper, his body moving slightly against hers, his fingers slipped under the bottom edge of her tank top, dragging it up over the overstretched flesh of her stomach.

At the feel of that hidden skin being exposed to the cool air, the anxiety she'd been trying to hold back exploded inside of her and Clary wiggled beneath Jace, her hands coming back up and shoving him hard in the chest. Jace drew back, shock and confusion etched into the lines of his face. Clary scrambled backwards and up, lowering her shirt back down. Her heart slammed into her ribcage and her stomach twisted so hard she felt sick. Jace's gaze bored into her like lasers, tearing through her flesh and running straight through her heart. She fought to control her breath, to keep her shoulders calm and steady, as her lungs screamed at her to breathe.

"Clary," Jace said, his voice strained. "What was that?"

"Nothing," she said, turning away from him and fighting against the urge to cry.

"That wasn't 'nothing.'"

"I just need to study and I can't get all caught up in making out right now."

Jace was silent for a few moments. "Why do you always do that?"

"Do what?" Clary still refused to look at him. After a few moments, she felt his fingers on her face and then she was staring at him.

"That," he said quietly. "Brush stuff off as something else just to avoid talking to me. Why do you do that?"

"I'm not—"

"Yes," he said, dropping his fingers from her jaw, "you are. You _always_ are."

Anger and embarrassment flooded her cheeks. "I thought you didn't want to talk, Jace." Clary could hear the condescension in her voice and it made her feel like absolute crap.

"Come on, you know that's not what I—"

"Well, maybe I don't want to talk now, either."

Jace let out a frustrated growl. "God, Clary, that's exactly what I'm talking about! You never want to talk about anything. You haven't wanted me to touch you for weeks and you won't tell me why. I just don't get it, and I'm sick of having to drag everything out of you!"

"So stop trying!" Clary finally turned toward him, giving him her unwavering attention. The dark feeling twisted up inside of her, choking her, taking her over. "Stop trying to figure me out. Stop trying to fix everything all the time!"

Jace reached for her. "Stop pushing me away."

Clary slapped at his hands, doing exactly what he'd just accused her of. "Then stop pawing at me all the time!"

Jace reeled back as if he was slapped, and Clary watched her words slash through him. She wanted to take them back, to tell him it wasn't anything he'd done wrong, that it was her, that it was _all_ her. But her pride and self-protectiveness wouldn't let her, and instead, she continued pouring all the acidic self-doubt and hurt onto him, tearing at him with all the ugliness and shame that lived inside of her.

"This is still my body, you know. Just because I'm sharing it with this kid doesn't mean I have to share it with you whenever you feel the urge!" Clary felt the words burn her throat as they flowed out of her, and watched as each one knocked him down a little more each time.

She hated them.

She hated all of them.

But yet, she couldn't stop them from pouring out of her like venom. "Sometimes I just want to study or talk or just freaking lay down on a bed without you thinking it's open season. Maybe there's nothing wrong, maybe I just don't want to. And I shouldn't have to explain my reasons to you!"

When she finished, silence lay over the room in a suffocating fog. Jace just looked at her, his eyes fixed and unmoving. Clary's blood still fizzled in her veins, her anger and hurt and disgrace radiating through her.

After several moments, Jace finally moved, slowly and with purpose. He stood from the bed, his stare never wavering as he moved away from her. Clary could feel the heat of her outburst dissipating, only to be replaced by the cold reality of regret.

"The last time I checked," Jace said, his voice steady and eerily calm, "this was a relationship. And in a relationship, talking is a major part of it. So, yeah, Clary, you _do _have to explain your reasons to me." The timbre of his voice became harder, harsher. "You _do_ need to tell me why you don't want me to touch you. You _do_ need to explain it to me, because it's not like I'm going to understand why you push me away over and over again if you don't. So, please," he said, "_please_, just tell me what the hell's wrong."

Clary broke his stare and lowered her gaze to the comforter, then closed her eyes. Emotion bubbled through her, filling her from head to toe with uncertainty, self-consciousness, and fear. She wanted it all to go away, so badly, but still, she couldn't tell him, didn't want to tell him. Her _shame_ was shameful. The way her body sickened her and the way it affected everything she thought, did, and said, was shameful. He wouldn't understand. He couldn't.

And so she did the only thing she could.

"I have to study," she said, so quietly she wasn't even sure he'd heard her.

When he sighed in defeat, she knew he had.

She expected him to turn away and storm off. It was what she would have done had their roles been reversed, and she wouldn't blame him in the least if he did the same. But Jace rarely did what she expected. Instead, Clary heard him come toward her and felt his warm fingers tuck under her chin, lifting her gaze to his. Clary kept her eyes closed for a bit longer, and when she opened them, her stomach dropped when she saw the pain on his face. The pain she'd put there.

"I don't know why you do this," he said, his words almost a whisper. "I don't know why you do this to yourself, to me. To us. I don't know why . . ." Jace swallowed. "But when you decide to tell me, you know where to find me." And then he leaned in, his lips brushing her cheek and lingering for a few seconds, before he turned and walked out the bedroom door.

Clary sat there atop the bed where he'd left her, unmoving, as she listened to his footsteps grow farther and farther away, the heat of his words and his kiss burning into her cheek and her heart. Her pulse still pounded and her stomach still twisted, but the ugliness was all she felt. It was all-consuming and never ending. It owned her now.

Her throat filled and her eyes stung with unshed tears, but it wasn't until she heard the outside door click and the motor of his car turn over, that she dared to let them out.

.o.O.o.

_God. I am such an asshole._

Jace gripped the steering wheel and stared at the layer of white that continued to coat his windshield between each pass of the wipers. He didn't know how long he'd been sitting there in that exact position at a stop sign several blocks from the Lightwood's house, but he didn't really give a shit either. He was still preoccupied with how incredibly stupid he'd been. What the hell was wrong with him?

He should have known Clary wouldn't want him to do that. He should have known it! But he'd tried anyway. Tried and got her all pissed off in the process. Jace lowered his head and banged it a few times on the steering wheel, trying to get her words out of his mind. But nothing he did made them go away. They were stuck on repeat, playing over and over on a loop in his head.

_This is still my body, you know._

_ Stop pawing at me all the time!_

A glare of light shone through the snow covering his back window, and Jace swallowed as he pulled away from the stop sign. The streets were empty and quiet, odd for this time of night, but Jace was secretly glad. He was having a hard time concentrating on the road anyway and didn't want to have to worry about oncoming traffic. The argument that had erupted between him and Clary was probably a long time coming, seeing as Clary had been more and more reluctant to be touched by him, and he was too much of an ass to take a hint.

As it were, he had not expected it to be that bad.

Jace slowed his speed and squinted through the wall of white in front of him. It was really coming down now. He tried to get out of his head and concentrate on the road, but he couldn't stop seeing the look on her face when she'd pushed him away. It wasn't anger or hurt or anything he would have expected; it was fear. She was afraid. But of what? Him?

Jace pushed a hand into his hair and swiped the damp strands away from his forehead. He'd been trying so hard not to be a dick about it, letting her make the decisions about when, where and how far they could go. He understood—well, he tried to understand—that with all the changes in her body, maybe she just didn't feel like it all the time. But . . . it had been weeks since they'd had sex—the last time being after she'd gotten out of the hospital and they'd been stranded in his car. God, that seemed like forever ago.

Images from that time flooded his brain. He could still see her above him: in control, needy, beautiful; he could feel her nails in his chest and her thighs clenched around his hips; he could hear the hitch in her breath when they joined and the quiet hum in her throat as she'd moved over him.

Jace shook his head and blew out a slow breath, trying his hardest to dispel those thoughts. They did nothing to help and only frustrated the situation further. Yeah, he could take care of his own needs—he was an eighteen-year-old guy and that shit was just a given—but he missed _her_ so damn much.

He missed the way she used to look at him, the heat that filled her eyes as they traveled over his body. He missed the way she used to touch him, as if she couldn't get enough, no matter how long she'd had her hands on him. And he missed the way she'd kissed him, as if he was the most delicious thing she'd ever tasted.

Now, she guarded her gaze whenever she turned it on him, maneuvered her hands over him in ways that were purely non-sexual. She still kissed him the same as she had before, but her lips were stiffer and her tongue shyer.

A horn blared behind him, startling Jace out of his head. Glancing down, he realized he was driving ten miles under the speed limit. He sped up, but knew he should probably just pull over until he got his thoughts under control. About a half a mile up the road, he spied a dimly lit parking lot and pulled in without caring what he was pulling into. He just needed a moment, a single damn moment to get his head together.

When he was finally parked, Jace closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the headrest. His heart pounded in his ears and the soft snick of snow hitting the glass was the only sound he heard. Normally, the quiet would be good and peaceful, but tonight it just accentuated the unrest in his mind.

He sat there for a while, before he became aware of a screech of laughter just outside his window. Opening his eyes, Jace spied a youngish couple—maybe a few years older than him—laughing and dancing in the snow near their car. The guy had his arms around the girl's back, and she was bent backwards, her arms flung out as if she were flying, her eyes closed as he spun her round and round. The untroubled happiness Jace saw in them made his chest squeeze, and he realized that he and Clary had never had that. Nothing had ever felt so happy and carefree for them. Everything was always a struggle. Every moment of peace, every second of happiness, they had to fight so damn hard for. And it wasn't fair.

It wasn't God-damn fair.

And as he sat there watching the couple twirl and smile and hold each other in the falling snow, he felt a stab of loneliness.

Tearing his gaze away from the happy couple, Jace stared straight ahead. The wipers swished across his windshield, and his breath caught when he realized where he was. In the seconds before the snow covered the glass again, Jace saw the broken down outer of the diner where he and Clary had met Stephen to discuss his case. His mouth dried out and he tried to swallow against it. Jace watched as people moved around inside, seemingly content and happy as they enjoyed their coffee and pie.

More than anything, Jace wanted that—not coffee or pie, but contentment. He wanted content. He wanted happy. He wanted anything other than what he was feeling now: darkness that crept up on him with no warning and stole his breath, emptiness that seemed to spread, and grow, and thrive right along with it.

Just for a minute, just for a second, he wanted to feel something else.

Without thinking, Jace switched off the ignition and unbuckled his seatbelt. He opened the door and stepped out into the falling snow. The stinging wetness quickly slipped down his cheeks and stuck to his hair and lashes, but he didn't bother to brush it away. His gaze was glued to the place before him, the place that brought him so many conflicting feelings.

_Jesus, what the hell am I doing here?_

Jace's feet drew him forward, the snow crunching underneath his shoes as he walked. The chatter and laughter became louder as he neared the door, but he did not slow. The draw to what was inside was so strong Jace didn't think he could stop himself even if he tried.

Moments later, he stepped through the doorway and was assaulted once again by the scent of grease, warm apples, and cinnamon. It wasn't a smell he was accustomed to, as his mother had never baked, but for some reason it still felt welcoming and like . . . like coming home.

He stopped just inside and looked around, observing everything in a way he hadn't the first time. Despite the storm picking up outside, the place was packed with patrons: some couples sitting alone, snuggled up together in the booths along the back wall, and some families with multiple children surrounding their table. It was unlike anything he'd ever been a part of, but had always wanted so desperately for himself.

A family of five descended on the door, and Jace moved out of the way, as the father bent to scoop up his little boy before he could dart out into the snowy parking lot alone. The boy wrapped his mitten-covered hands around his dad's cheeks and gave him a big, wet kiss on the end of the nose. Jace couldn't look away when the Dad's face pinched into a mock, grossed-out expression and he made a big show of wiping the slobber from his nose. The little boy nearly fell apart with giggles and curled into his father's embrace. The mom tried to give them a scolding look, but could not hold her smile back, as she grabbed the hands of two older girls and the family made their way out into the night.

Jace stared after them. His chest heavy and full, almost like it ached, but not in a way he was used to.

"I didn't know if we'd see you again around here."

Jace startled and peered toward where the voice had come from. Nana stood almost right next to him and stared out the door at the family too, her face fixed into a pleased smile. She looked exactly as she had the first time Jace had met her: poofy gray hair done up in large curls, and eyes that nearly disappeared when she smiled. She even wore the same outfit, down to the red and white checkered apron covering her front.

After a moment, she peered up at Jace, her grin widening. "Was it my pie? It was, wasn't it?"

Jace frowned. "I'm sorry. I don't—"

"The reason you're here. It was my pie, right?"

"Oh. I—I don't know. I was just . . . driving . . . and found myself outside." He shoved his hands into his pockets and looked down at the ground.

"Just driving, huh?" She glanced at the snow swirling outside the window, then back at him, her brow raised in suspicion. "Where's your pretty little lady tonight? Having more sense than you to be out in this weather?"

Clary's words from earlier came back to him and he sighed, his brows coming together in the middle.

"Oh, dear," Nana said. "That isn't a very happy face, my boy. You look just like your mother when you make it."

Jace's head snapped up and he stared at Nana. Hearing her mention his mother was like someone had poured cold water over his head. Blinking, he wet his lips, and spoke the question burning in his mind. "Did you know her very well? My—my mom?"

"Boy, oh, boy, you don't waste time on small talk, do you?" She sighed. "Well, come on." Nana grabbed his arm and pulled him across the diner to a booth near the back. "I'm going to need a sugar boost before we continue this conversation. Hot cocoa?"

"Oh. No. I just . . . I should probably—"

She held up her finger at Jace's protest. "Ah, ah, young man, nobody refuses my cocoa. It's almost as good as my pie. So, just sit your hind end down and humor an old lady, would you?" Jace had no words. Nana nodded her head as if she knew silence would be his response all along. "Now, do you prefer marshmallows or whipped cream on top?"

"Do I have to choose just one?"

She whooped a laugh and reached out to lightly pinch his cheek. "Spoken like a true Herondale. Give me just a minute." She winked and turned away.

Jace watched as Nana disappeared behind the counter and through the doors leading to what he assumed was the kitchen.

Herondale. She'd called him a Herondale. No matter how many times he repeated the name to himself inside his mind, it sounded foreign and wrong to his brain. It just wasn't who he was. Yeah, he knew Stephen Herondale was his birth father—he'd always known that. But he was Jace Wayland. That's who he'd always been, who he'd always be.

Letting out a slow breath, he tried to settle himself in the seat. The old vinyl material crackled and squeaked under his weight, and he felt a little like he'd been run over by a semi.

Raucous laughter and squeals of delight echoed all around Jace as he sat there, staring at the Formica tabletop and trying to figure out why the hell he was there. It didn't make any sense in his mind, especially since the loneliness he'd felt out in the car was magnified by a thousand in there. But for some reason, he could not bring himself to leave. Maybe it was because he would feel guilty walking out on a kind old woman offering him cocoa. Or maybe it was because he was just so damn tired of being alone, and there was something about this place that made him think he didn't have to be.

Jace shifted uncomfortably and glanced around, his gaze falling to the wall of photos he'd looked at the first time he'd been there. His eyes zeroed in on the section that had housed his mother and father's photo and he frowned when he noticed it wasn't there.

"We rotate them out every few days," Nana said, as she set two steaming mugs of cocoa onto the table and slid into the booth across from Jace.

"What?" he asked.

"The pictures." She gestured to the wall. "We have so many and we try to feature them all at one time or another, so we change them out."

"Oh," Jace said, dropping his head and stirring the spoon in the hot cocoa sitting in front of him. Nana had given him both marshmallows and whipped cream. The strange ache inside of him panged.

Silence stretched between them for several minutes before Nana sighed. "It's very hard to not say the things I'm not supposed to, when you're sitting right there across from me."

Jace glanced up, and Nana was looking at him intensely, her eyes gleaming.

"I've thought about this for so long," she continued. "What it would be like to look you in the eye and talk to you. What kind of a person you'd turn out to be. If you'd be blessed with the Herondale jaw." She leaned into him as if she had a secret to tell him, and whispered, "You were."

Jace frowned. "If you thought about me so much, why didn't you ever try to contact me?"

"I did." She scowled and spoke gruffly. "Of course I did. But your mama thought it might confuse you. Make you ask more questions about your daddy." She sighed. "I couldn't rightly disagree with her. She was your mama."

"Oh," Jace said. He didn't know how to feel about that.

"You asked if I knew your mama well, and the answer to that is complicated."

"How so?"

"Well," she started, pausing as if to think of the best way to put whatever she had to say. "Celine wasn't the . . . easiest person to get to know. She had these walls up around her, ones she never let anyone through." Her voice quieted. "No one but Stephen."

Jace felt his heart catch when Nana mentioned Stephen's name. He still was not ready for him, was not ready to acknowledge any feeling or desire to know anything about him. Seeing him earlier that day had been . . . tough. He knew he had to deal with it better if he was going to get through this shit with the lawsuit, but every time he saw Stephen all he wanted to do was turn in the opposite direction and hightail it out of there. Or else punch him in the face.

Nana studied him. "You have the same look about you. The one that warns anyone who is thinking about trying to get too close to beware. The one that lets me know you have your own walls."

He shook his head and went to speak, when something slid across the table toward him. His breath caught in his chest. It was the photo from the wall, the one of his mother and Stephen, smiling and looking so much in love. He touched the edges of the frame and tried to breathe.

"Can you see it?" Nana asked quietly. "Can you see it in her eyes?"

Jace squinted and focused on his mother's eyes, his eyes. For a long time he saw nothing but the crinkles at the edges and the way her mouth took up half her face when she smiled. But then—almost like one of those pictures where if you stare at it long enough, another image appears—he saw it, or the absence of it, rather. And then he switched and focused on Stephen Herondale, seeing the way his father's eyes shone with all the hope and promise and dreams of a seventeen-year-old-boy.

His mother's eyes did not sparkle. They did not shine.

They did not look happy and fulfilled and dreamy. They looked empty and lost. Just like him.

Jace ran his finger over her face and swallowed against the tightness in his throat. "She looks sad. And . . . and lonely."

"I think she was," Nana said. "No matter how many people she surrounded herself with, she always seemed to be separate. Alone." Her eyes followed the lines of Jace's face. "You have that too, Jace. That look and feeling about you. It's not quite the same, but I see it there, hiding just below the surface of your eyes. Your mama's eyes."

Jace let out a shuddering breath but didn't speak. He couldn't, because it was true. He felt that separateness, that loneliness. He always had, like it was a disease eating a hole through his heart.

Nana reached across the table and covered his hand with hers. Her skin was warm and soft, as were her eyes on his. "Now, I promised Stephen I wouldn't push, but I have to say this just once while I have you here in front of me, because I fear you may not give me another chance."

Jace let his gaze find hers, and he could see the sincerity in it.

"Regardless of what my grandson did when he was a young and stupid boy, and in spite of the fact that his decisions made it impossible for the rest of us to know you, does not mean we didn't want to."

Jace's mouth dropped open to respond, but no words came out.

"You don't have to say anything, Jace." This time Nana's smile was sad and she squeezed his hand. "I didn't tell you that to get a reaction or some type of commitment from you. I can only imagine how things have been for you all these years. How many questions you must have and how many conflicting feelings come along with those questions. But I just wanted you to know that you hadn't been discarded and forgotten in our minds and hearts. You were here with us all along; you just didn't know it."

Jace swallowed, trying to open his throat and say something, anything, but he had no idea what to say to that. No one had ever said those types of things to him before. No one but Clary. He'd never thought any of them wanted a thing to do with him as a child. And now he was being told they had, that they always had and it had been kept from him. That knowledge was almost too much for him now. He needed a moment, a second, a fraction of a second to get his thoughts straight, but he couldn't think. He couldn't do anything except relive Nana's last words.

_You were here with us all along; you just didn't know it._

A tsunami of old memories and feelings crashed over him. Numerous times he'd wondered about his real father's family, wondered why they didn't want him. There were times when he'd gained enough courage to ask his mother who and where they were, and he always received the same answer: "They didn't want to be our family, baby. It's just you and me and Michael. We're all we need anyway."

Jace had spent his whole life bitter and angry with people he never knew, thinking none of them cared what the hell happened to him, when all along, some of them had. Maybe all of them. Jace loved his mother, loved her with every fiber of his being, but he was so pissed off at her in that moment he wanted to scream. She'd let him believe she and Michael were all he truly had, that that tiny corner of the world she'd constructed around the three of them was all he'd ever need. She was wrong. And then she'd left him anyway.

"I apologize," Nana said, her expression filled with chagrin. "I've said too much."

"No," Jace said, finally finding his voice and trying to clear his face of the expression of shock and anger he was sure it held. "No, it's . . . it's fine."

And that feeling Jace had been having earlier, the one in his chest that felt sort of achy but sort of not, returned. Only this time it spread down to his stomach, his entire body becoming warmer and lighter. The sensation freaked him the hell out and he stood abruptly, his hand making its way to his hair. The noise around him became more apparent: the chatter, the laughter, the clanking of dishes and the scraping of utensils across plates. And suddenly, he wanted nothing more than to get out of there. He couldn't think in that noise, couldn't breathe.

Jace's fingers tightened and pulled against the strands clenched in his fist. He didn't understand what this feeling was or why this little old woman gave it to him. He didn't understand why his mother had done what she'd done. And he didn't understand what had happened with Clary either. All of these things and emotions were piling up inside of him, filling him to the brim and threatening to explode. For as long as Jace could remember, his life had consisted of three basic truths. One: his biological father and family wanted nothing to do with him. Two: he was going to be a football legend. Three: the Waylands and Morgensterns were mortal enemies and would remain so until the end of time.

That was it.

His entire life story broken down into three prongs of that proverbial fork.

And now he knew every single one of them was a lie.

Jace's breath quickened and he could taste the grease and cinnamon in the air as it passed rapidly over his tongue. He was losing it. He was God-damn losing it.

Nana's brows came together and she pushed herself up from the booth. "Jace? Are you all right?" She took a step toward him, which Jace countered with one back.

He needed to get out of there. Now.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm . . . I'm fine." He dropped his hand and backed up again. Nana's face fell. "I just . . . I should probably . . ." He gestured to the door behind him. "You know, before the storm gets worse."

"Of course," she said, but her expression did not match her words.

"Thanks for the . . . cocoa."

"Anytime. Don't be a stranger now, all right?"

"Sure," Jace said, spinning toward the door and making his way across the diner, his heart beating a bit too hard and his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. The warmth inside of him spread up into his face and he could feel his cheeks heating. What the hell was this? Just as he reached out for the door and wrapped his fingers around the handle, he heard his name.

"Jace."

Closing his eyes, he drew in a calming breath and glanced over his shoulder, finding Nana standing just a few feet behind him._ How the hell did she move so fast?_

"Yeah?"

She paused for a moment, as if she were trying to figure out how to say what she wanted to say. "I meant what I said. Don't be a stranger." Her eyes held onto his. "Come back again."

The warmth crashed over him again, hot and relentless, making him almost shudder in response. His fingers tightened on the cool metal handle. "Yeah, I will."

Nana smiled, and as Jace pulled open the door and stepped out into the relentless storm, he realized that his answer wasn't just words, even though he'd meant them to be. Despite everything, there was something here that tugged at him, that drew him in. Maybe it was Nana; maybe it was the memory of his mother. Maybe it was nothing at all.

Or maybe it was everything he'd ever wanted, but had never been given the chance to have.

.o.O.o.

Clary's room still smelled faintly of the Hawaiian Breeze potpourri her mother had given her several months earlier. As she stepped inside, her hands laden with bags, she paused before the open closet door. Everything appeared as it had the last time she'd been in there. All of her drawings hung exactly in the same spots, and photos of her and Izzy and the other cheerleaders remained stuck between the wood and the glass of her mirror. It was as if she'd never left.

But on the other hand, it felt like she'd never lived there at all.

Bending down, she deposited the bags to the floor of the closet, and her eyes fell to the myriad of clothing hanging along the wall. Some of them were her regular, everyday wear, and some her party dress. Stepping forward, she fingered the edge of the skirt she'd worn the night she'd met Jace. There were no new memories attached to the garment about that night, but seeing it there caused her chest to tighten and her eyes to sting.

Had that girl really been her? Had she been bold enough to wear that skirt and those boots, and to go upstairs with a virtual stranger to do the things she knew they'd done? It didn't seem possible now. She didn't know that girl anymore. Hell, she didn't know the girl she was now, either.

Clary caught her reflection in the mirror on the back of the door. Her eyes were red and lined with dark circles. She'd barely slept the night before, tossing and turning, as she'd replayed the things she'd said to Jace over and over again. Her words had been horrible and mean, spiteful and prideful. Thinking back on them now sort of made her want to throw up.

Reaching down to her bag, she rummaged through the front pocket until her fingers closed around her cell phone. She pulled it out and pressed the circular button on the front, lighting up the screen.

No new messages.

Lowering her head to rest against her phone, she let out a sigh. Of course he hadn't called her. Why should he? She'd been a complete bitch. Her vision blurred and her finger hovered over the contacts button. But she couldn't seem to find the will to press down.

If she called him, she'd have to explain; she'd have to tell him exactly what had happened last night. She'd have to admit to him her deepest, ugliest truths. Was she ready to admit to him that the reason she'd pushed him away, the reason she couldn't let herself be with him, the reason she was depriving him of what he seemed to need, was because she thought she was ugly? That just the thought of his eyes taking in the bright reddish-purple marks, the darkening of her nipples, the extra hairs sprouting in places they'd never sprouted before, that his fingers roaming over the skin of her belly, feeling the change in texture over the higher marks and the subtle indents of the lower ones, made her want to be sick. How could she tell him that?

Then again, how could she not?

She touched the icon for her contacts and found his name on the list. She pressed it and his picture came up—one she'd taken from the side as he drove. Wetness slid over her cheeks as her thumb lingered over the call button. He deserved to know—she knew he did—but it was all just so embarrassing. She should have been over this by now. It shouldn't have consumed her the way it did, but it had and she couldn't seem to make it stop.

A soft knock sounded and Clary startled. Her father stood inside the doorway, his body stiff and uncomfortable as he studied her. She wiped at her face hastily and turned her whole body toward where he stood.

His eyes narrowed. "Are you crying?"

Clary sniffed and blinked, her lashes wet against her skin. "No."

Her father's gaze drifted to the phone in her hand, and his eyes blazed. Clary glanced down and noticed Jace's picture still lighting up the screen. She clicked the power button immediately and it went dark.

"What did that boy do now?"

"Don't start, Dad. He didn't do anything."

"I'm not 'starting' Clarissa. And don't speak to me that way. I'm still your father." He smoothed his hands over the front of his suit jacket—something he'd done for as long as Clary remembered. She used to think it was an odd, nervous gesture, but now it just seemed to be some sort of arrogant way to assert his importance, as if a suit could say that to her. "If he didn't do anything then why are you crying while looking at his picture?"

"Because I'm pregnant and hormonal and I cry about _everything_." Not exactly a lie, but not the truth either.

What else was she supposed to tell him, though? That they'd argued the night before because Clary hated her body and Jace wanted to feel her up? No.

Her father's face pinched into an aggravated expression. She knew that look; it meant he didn't believe a single word she said. However, the awkwardness of her mentioning the pregnancy was enough for him to keep his mouth shut.

Clary sighed and rubbed her forehead. Not only had the lack of sleep made her eyes tired and itchy, but also a lingering headache was threatening to become a migraine. "What did you want, Dad? If it was just to come up here and start an argument about Jace, then can we please just wait until tomorrow? I don't feel good and I just . . . don't want to.

"No, that's not . . ." Her father ran his hands over his suit again and drew in a breath. She was trying his patience and she could see the proof of that in the way the vein above his eye twitched. "Look, I know being back here is a bit . . . uncomfortable for you."

"A bit?"

He ignored her sarcastic tone. "Regardless of how we left things, I really think this is the best thing for all of us. You shouldn't be living with people who aren't your family. You're going to need all the support you can get right now."

"Support?" Clary said. "I wasn't aware you knew the meaning of the word."

"We've all made mistakes, Clarissa, and it would do you well to remember whose mistake it was that brought us to this point in the first place." His eyes zeroed in on her stomach. And then suddenly, his expression changed, almost as if he'd caught himself doing something he wasn't supposed to. He cleared his throat. "But this isn't the time for pointing fingers."

Clary crossed her arms over her chest. "Then what is it the time for? I mean, really. I don't understand what this is. Since you got called into my school you've been going out of your way to . . . I don't even know what." She flicked her hand toward the shopping bags on the floor. "What's this all about?"

"I wasn't aware I needed a reason to buy my daughter clothes. You used to appreciate spending my money."

"They're maternity clothes."

"You're pregnant."

"A fact you wanted to do everything in your power to change a few months ago."

"Clarissa." Her father closed his eyes and squeezed the bridge of his nose. "I never tried—"

"You told me if you'd had your way I would have gotten rid of this _thing_ already. What am I supposed to think you meant by that?" Anger coursed through her veins like gasoline and lit a flame that had only smoldered up until now. "You tried to make me give him up. You had my baby's father brought up on charges of _rape_! You've tried everything!"

"You're damn right I've tried everything!" he shouted, finally losing the cool exterior and showing Clary exactly what lay underneath. "What would you expect me to do? You're sixteen-years-old. You're too young to have a child. You're too young to know the first thing about what you've gotten yourself into. And that _boy_ deserves everything he gets. He stole your innocence. He stole your childhood, your life!"

"And that gave you the right to steal his? That gave you the right to potentially steal _my child's_ father away from him for a few years?"

Her father went to speak, but snapped his mouth shut instead.

"I thought so," she said.

Silence engulfed the room for many moments. After awhile, Clary's father cleared his throat again. "It's been a trying several days, perhaps we should save this conversation for another time when . . . emotions . . . aren't running quite so high."

"Maybe we just shouldn't have this conversation at all."

"Clarissa—"

"No, Dad." Clary held her hand up, then let it drop to her side. "I mean, what's the point? We're never going to agree, so why bother talking about it at all? I already know how you feel about this whole situation, about me, about Jace. We really don't need to rehash it. You've made yourself perfectly clear. I know the stupid school says I have to live here with you to "oversee" my education or whatever, so we're just going to have to live with this arrangement for awhile."

Clary's father was quiet for a long time. She had no idea what he was thinking, and honestly, she didn't want to know. She was done, just . . . done. In an attempt to get her father to leave by making herself look busy, she turned toward the closet and grasped the handles of one of the shopping bags, taking it over to the bed and dumping the contents onto the comforter.

"I never wanted this for you," her father said, his voice softer and so unlike the one he usually reserved for her.

She sighed and turned back toward him. "I don't think any parent wants their teenager to get knocked up. If they do, there's something seriously wrong with them."

"Not that," he said. "Everything else. I never wanted you involved in my issues with the Waylands. I never meant for you to be hurt by them."

"I'm not involved in your 'issues,' Dad. That still completely belongs to you." She paused. "And to be honest, it hasn't seemed like you've cared much about how any of this has affected _me_ at all. It's seemed like all you've cared about is how it made you look."

"That's not true."

"Isn't it?"

Before her father had a chance to answer, a knock sounded at the door downstairs and he turned his head toward the noise, a loud sigh coming from him before he looked back at her. "I know you won't believe me, but I am sorry for hurting you. That was never my intention in any of this."

Clary swallowed against the tightening in her throat and had no idea what to say to that. But she needn't have worried, since, after a moment of pause, he walked away without waiting for a reply.

Closing her eyes, Clary lowered herself to the edge of her bed and covered her face with her hands. Her entire being was tired and tight: her chest, her throat, her stomach, her soul. Everything from the night before, and what had just happened between her and her father, mixed together and created so many different emotions, she wasn't sure exactly what was happening. Confusion clouded her mind. About Jace, but even more so about her father. She wasn't used to this confliction regarding him. For the past weeks, she'd been so sure of where he stood, that he didn't care about her, that he only had one thing that mattered to him—his revenge on the Wayland's. But now . . . now she wasn't sure.

A spark of . . . something . . . flared up inside of her.

Clary recognized the emotion building, the one multiplying, twisting, and warming her from the inside out: hope. She'd been telling herself for months now that there was no hope left for her family. The moment she'd slept with Jace was the moment she'd lost them all. God, she was so confused, so torn on what was right and what was true. Or maybe she was just uncertain about what she _wanted_ to be right and what she _wanted_ to be true.

There were parts of her that wanted to turn her back on all of them: her mother, her father, sometimes even her brother, and never look back. They'd all hurt her in their own ways, more than she was sure any of them imagined. But then there was a part of her, a very small part, that just wanted them back, regardless of what any of them had done. Clary hated this part. It was weak and cowardly, and she despised feeling weak.

Clary couldn't seem to reconcile her feelings with the thoughts in her head. Logically, she knew what her father had done, knew it and hated him for it. She didn't think she would ever be a big enough person to forgive him for that. But she couldn't deny the part of her that wanted her daddy back. Her family. Her life.

But maybe that was all that mattered. Maybe the hatred and the refusal to forgive was what was dragging her down to the depths she'd found herself in lately. There were enough things she had no control over: the changes to her body, the hormones racing through her with reckless abandon, the consequences she and Jace were both facing because of their actions, but this—her willingness to open herself up to the possibility of moving forward—she could.

With determination, she stood from the bed, moving toward the door and exiting into the hall. Despite all the conflicting reasons going on inside of her, she could at least try. She could give a little if her father was willing to as well. It didn't mean she was over the things he'd said and done, but she had to at least try.

When Clary reached the top of the stairs, she paused as voices floated up from the floor below.

". . . can't believe it's so soon. When did you hear?" her father's low baritone rang out. He sounded a little nervous and unsure.

Another, much higher, male voice responded, but Clary was having a hard time making out his words. As quietly as she could, she tip-toed down the stairs to try and hear better what was going on.

" . . . got her to agree to come home?" the other man said. "How did you manage that?"

"I didn't," her father said. "The school did that for me. They threatened to discount her entire last semester if she didn't comply with their rules, which included her being under the supervision of a legal parent or guardian. And since her mother is still wherever the hell she is, that leaves me."

"Lucky break. We couldn't have hoped for anything better at this point than if we'd planned it. Have you been doing the things I suggested?"

"Yes," her father said, the word slightly unsure. "But I don't know how much good it's done. She still hates me."

"She's a teenager, they all hate their parents. But it doesn't take much too bribe them into your good graces. Just keep it up and she'll come around. Hopefully before the hearing."

Clary's stomach dropped. She reached out and curled her fingers around the corner and peeked out. Her father stood with his back to her, and the other man—who she couldn't make out properly, only that he was portly and short, dressed in a gray suit—leaned against the door. He looked like a lawyer: arrogant, creepy, immoral. By the way they were talking, Clary deduced that's exactly who he was.

"I doubt it's going to be enough," her father said. "She thinks she's in love with the boy. Though I believe they may be fighting right now. She . . . she was crying earlier, and I'm pretty sure it was over him."

"It's like they're playing right into this without having a clue," the other man said. "Keep reaching out to her by being caring and supportive. The closer you get, the further she'll grow from him. And the better it'll look for you. Trust me, this is the edge we've been looking for."

Clary gasped and drew back as to not be seen. Her face heated and her eyes stung in anger. Was this really happening? Was this all just a game to him? To both of them?

"I don't know . . ."

"Trust me, Valentine. Everything is falling into place. This is our game now."

The heat from Clary's cheeks traveled down to her chest, making her feel like she was on fire. Fury throbbed through her veins, filling her to overflowing. So that was what this was all about: the clothes, the sticking up for her, the awkward half-apology. It wasn't sincere. He didn't feel bad. She was just a damn pawn. This was all still about "besting a Wayland." About winning.

How could she have been so incredibly stupid, almost falling for his lies?

The click of the door closing made Clary's heart skip, and she moved as quickly as she could back up the stairs and into her room. Closing the door behind her, she took in a few calming breaths, before pulling her phone from her pocket, turning it on, and pressing the call button under Jace's name. She didn't care what had happened the night before, didn't care that she now felt awkward and embarrassed, she needed to hear his voice, to be with him, because since this all began he'd been the only person she could trust with everything. She'd been so stupid last night, so incredibly stupid. If she'd just told him how she was feeling—regardless of how petty and vain it sounded—he would have at least tried to understand. But no, she'd let her humiliation get the best of her and had pushed him away instead. God, when would she figure out that he was the one person who wouldn't judge her? Why did she have to continue to test his limits?

She was such an _idiot_.

Without even realizing it, her insecurity was driving a wedge between her and Jace, just when they needed each other most. And her father and his sleazy lawyer-dude were poised to milk it for all they could.

Panic started to rise up inside of Clary, as the phone rang and rang. Why wasn't he answering? He never ignored her calls—no matter how hurt or pissed he was. And then his voicemail picked up.

"Damn it," she said, her fingers fumbling to call again.

Voicemail.

She felt like throwing her phone.

Lifting her hand to her hair, she pulled slightly as she tried to think. What if he _was_ ignoring her? What if this had been the last straw? She had to tell him what that was all about last night, but how could she if he wouldn't pick up his damn phone?

Without another thought, she clicked back to her contacts list. When she found the person she wanted, she pressed call. It rang twice, before someone picked up.

"Hello?"

Clary exhaled in relief. "Simon. Thank God."

"Wow, I can't say that you thanking God for my answering the phone isn't incredibly flattering. What's up?" he said. "Are you back now?"

"Yeah, um, listen." Clary grabbed her bag and slung it over her shoulder, patting her pockets for her phone, realizing moments later that she was talking into it. "Are you home?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Do you have your mom's keys?"

"I have a feeling I know where this is going. Not even a conversation of pleasantries first? I feel so used. I'm more than just a car floozy, you know."

"Simon," Clary said, exasperated. "Please?"

"Fine." He sighed. "Meet me outside in five."

Clary smiled for the first time since last night. "Thanks. I owe you."

"Yeah, and don't think I'll be forgetting that anytime soon." His voice was teasing.

"I won't," Clary said, meaning every word.

.o.O.o.

The water was cool as it beat against Jace's heated skin. He'd awoken that morning with such an overwhelming feeling of anxiousness he'd done the only thing that had ever worked for him in the past. He'd worked out until he felt like he might _pass_ out. Sebastian often bitched at him for pushing himself so hard, but he didn't know how else to work out the stress he was feeling. His father had always told him exercise was better than anything for whatever ailed you, but this time, nothing he did seemed to help at all. Not the forty-five minutes of repetitious lifting, not the five miles he'd run through the snowy woods, and not the twenty laps he'd done in the pool. Not a single thing made the squeezing in his chest lessen.

The shower cascaded over his head and he closed his eyes, rubbing his hands over his face. Every part of his body ached from his workout, and normally, Jace loved that feeling. But today it just added to the already crushing pain on the inside. He didn't know what the hell to do to relieve it. The one thing he wanted, the one person, he felt like he couldn't have—at least not right then. This shit was so messed up he didn't know what to do.

After a few more minutes, he shut off the water, but didn't move to leave the shower. Leaning his head against the wall, he breathed in the humid air, his lungs pinching and clenching with each inhale. He groaned at the sensation, wanting it all to just go away. He pounded his fist against the wall a few times, but still, nothing lessened any of what was happening inside of him.

Finally, he climbed out of the shower and hastily dried himself off before wrapping the towel loosely around his waist. He exited into his room and dropped the towel to the floor, grabbing the first things he found in his dresser, and dressed quickly. Crossing to his desk, he picked up his phone, his fingers itching to call her. He held the rectangular device in his palm, staring at it, willing it to ring on its own. When it actually did, it startled him so completely he nearly dropped it, juggling it a few times before settling it once more.

Anxiously, he glanced down at the screen, his stomach twisting into a knot when he spied the name displayed. He did not want to talk to _him_.

Jace considered not answering at all, but something inside told him he should. With a sigh, he clicked _accept_ and raised the phone to his ear.

"Hello?"

"Jace?" Stephen cleared his throat. "This is Stephen."

He fought back an eye roll. "Yeah, I know, I have caller I.D."

"Oh, right . . . well . . . I'm sorry to bother you on a weekend, but I'm afraid there's been a development we need to discuss."

Jace frowned and walked out of his room into the hall and started toward the stairs, his mouth suddenly dry and begging for water. "What happened? Is something wrong? Was it Annika's statement? Do you need her to come back and—"

"No, no," Stephen assured. "It's nothing like that. I actually presented her statement yesterday after we talked."

Jace froze at the bottom of the stairs, his fingers digging into the wood. "And?"

"And . . . well . . ."

Frustration twisted inside him and Jace squeezed the bannister harder. "Just spit it out. What the hell is it?"

Stephen sighed. "After reading through the statement, the judge assigned to the case asked for a rush preliminary hearing."

Jace sucked in a breath and held it for several seconds. He had no clue what that meant. "Okay . . . so, is that bad, or . . ."

"Not necessarily."

Jace heard the rustling of papers through the phone. As much as he didn't want to, he found himself picturing Stephen behind the large wooden desk, stacks of folders piled on both ends, and loose pens and paper clips scattered over the surface. And of course there was the small gold picture frame that sat next to his phone. The one Jace had tried desperately to ignore when he'd been there the day before. But no matter how hard he'd tried to avert his gaze, he'd seen anyway. And no matter what he did now, he could not get the little boy's eyes out of his head. They were so different from his, yet so similar at the same time.

It took Jace a moment to realize Stephen was still talking.

". . . It could be good—it could be great. But we have to prepare ourselves for the possibility that it might not. These types of cases are so touchy and so much can be left up to the discretion of the judge."

Jace thrust his hand into his hair and closed his eyes. "Okay," he said, his voice trembling a little. "When?"

Stephen was silent for several seconds. "Two weeks from Monday."

Jace's breath left him in a whoosh. "That soon? But . . . Is that enough time to—"

"It'll have to be. We don't have a choice."

"Okay," Jace said again, his mind spinning, oscillating between hope and fear. Hope that soon this would all just be over and all right, and fear that this could be the end of every dream he'd ever had for himself. "So, what now?"

"Now it's crunch time. There are a lot of things we still need to go over, questions we need to prepare you for . . . Can you meet me? Either at my office, or, if you're more comfortable, at the diner?"

Jace opened his mouth to speak, when a soft knock sounded at the door. He frowned. He wasn't expecting anyone, especially not someone that would knock that lightly, like it was only a courtesy instead of actually needing to in order to be let in.

"Hold on a sec," he said into the phone, before starting toward the door.

Just as he reached out, the knob turned on its own and the door opened, revealing to him a sight that made him freeze.

Clary stood there in the opening, her body swathed in Isabelle's black coat, one hand in her pocket and one on the knob, her feet covered in large winter boots. She stared up at him, her green eyes revealing to him the thing she didn't have to say aloud: _I'm sorry._

His breath stuttered in his chest.

Strands of red hair floated free around her face, quickly moving away as she exhaled. Just the sight of her standing there, looking at him the way she did, shouldn't have made him breathless, but it did. She always did.

His hand tightened around the phone, as he heard Stephen ask, "Jace?" But he didn't answer. He couldn't. He couldn't do anything but look at her. It had only been a day, but the distance he'd felt between them in that time had made it feel more like weeks. He lowered the phone.

Nervously, Clary bit down on her bottom lip and dropped her gaze to the ground, before raising it once again. Jace could see her mind working behind her eyes, and he wanted to tell her to stop, to just stop thinking and come here. But he still didn't speak.

Clary let out a trembling breath and said, "I'm ready."

Jace didn't need an explanation as to what she meant, he already knew. Without moving his gaze from hers—unable to, really—he lifted the phone back to his ear. "I'm gonna have to call you back."

"What? But . . . Jace, I don't think you realize how important this is. We need to—"

"And I know you don't realize how important this is," he said, his voice quiet and his eyes staying on Clary. Hers widened with his words. "I'll call you later."

And then he pressed the end button, tucking his phone into his pocket. He wanted so badly to reach out to her, to pull her into him, to hold her and kiss her and tell her all the things that had been going through his mind since last night. But as he stood there, he realized he couldn't move, couldn't speak at all. Because she'd come. All on her own, she'd come.

She was ready.

Jace stepped aside and swept his hand in front of him, welcoming her in, because so was he.

.o.O.o.

Clary stood near the doorway of Jace's room, her hands twisting together in front of her nervously. She didn't know why she felt like this. This was _Jace_; she had no reason to. But then again, she did.

Jace walked ahead of her and sat on the edge of the bed. He had yet to say a single word to her, and that alone was enough to make her squirm. A silent Jace was never a good thing. It always meant he was thinking too much, feeling too much. And this time she knew a lot of that had to do with her.

Clenching her fists and biting her bottom lip, she took a few steps further into the room and closed the door behind her, pausing for a moment before asking, "Is your dad here?"

Jace shook his head, and Clary nodded, pushing the door completely shut. While her back was turned, she closed her eyes and inhaled a few, calming breaths. Once she felt better, she faced him, and he was sitting the exact same way, just on the very edge of the bed, his hands clasped together between his knees, his eyes on her. She let her gaze travel over him, taking in the questions and concern swirling in his gold irises, the wet curls tightening around his ears, and the creases in his brow. He looked hurt, but he didn't look mad. It was a start.

"I—I tried to call a few times, but . . ." She stopped talking entirely and looked down at the floor, squeezing her lids shut, while trying to put her feelings into words. After a few moments, she looked up, blew out a breath, and took a couple of steps toward him. "I don't know how to start."

Jace didn't say anything as Clary struggled to formulate whatever it was in her mind, and his silence made everything feel so much worse. He wasn't going to make this easy on her, and she didn't blame him. He shouldn't.

"Would it be completely cliché of me to claim temporary insanity due to pregnancy hormones?" Her brows rose in hope.

Jace gave her a look of his own and her "hope" crumbled.

"Okay," she said. "I had to give it a shot."

"Clary . . ."

Her name on his tongue made goosebumps rise on her skin.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, her throat tight. "I—I don't know why I . . . why I feel like this."

Jace's brows drew together. "Feel like what?"

"Like . . ." Clary's eyes stung and her throat throbbed. She tried to swallow it all back, but she couldn't and her voice trembled when she spoke. "Like I'm so . . . so . . . disgusting." She lifted her hands and then let them fall to her sides. "Yes, it's still that. I know it's stupid. I just . . . I can't make it stop."

Jace stood and moved over to her. She gazed up at him, feeling the wetness of her tears fall over her cheeks.

"It's not stupid," he said, reaching out for her, but stopping before he touched her, seemingly unsure if he should. His hand lowered back to his side, and Clary's heart ached. She'd caused the uncertainty in his hand, in his eyes.

"Yes, it is. I'm ruining everything because I can't stand how I look. It _is_ stupid. And pathetic." She turned away from him and wiped her face. "I can't stand it. I can't stand feeling like this, like I don't want you to look at me or touch me, because I know if you do, you'll see it too."

"See _what_, Clary? I don't understand—"

"I know you don't!" Clary spun back around, her voice raising and her face heating. She clenched her fists at her sides, her nails digging into her palms. Jace rocked back slightly on his heels. "How could you? I mean, look at you!" She thrust her hand toward him. "How could you understand?"

Something flashed in Jace's eyes then. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Clary let out a sigh and shook her head. "Nothing. God, just . . . just never mind. I shouldn't have come here like this. I'm sorry." She went to turn away again, but stopped when he grabbed her arm.

"No." His voice was rough, angry. "Just stop it."

"I can't," she whispered. "I just wanted to apologize and make it right, but I still _feel _this, so how can I?"

Jace let out a frustrated growl, walking back toward the bed a few steps and reaching up to pull at his wet hair, before turning back to her. "Do you think you're the only one who feels like that? That you're the only one who ever looks at themself in the mirror and wants more than anything to punch their reflection?"

Clary blinked. "What?"

Jace held his hands out to his sides. "What do you see when you look at me, Clary?"

"Wh—what? I don't understand—"

"Just humor me. What do you see?" With his hands still out to his sides, he tweaked his fingers in a gesture that said "give it to me."

Clary swallowed and let her eyes roam over him, taking in the way his plain white t-shirt clung to his perfectly sculpted body and how his gym shorts hung just right on his hips. He was so beautiful, always so beautiful, but more than anything, she saw Jace. Just Jace.

"I see . . . you. Just you."

Jace strolled over to the mirror hanging on the back of his closet door. "You know what I see?" he asked, not waiting for her to answer before continuing. "I see _him_." And Clary knew he meant Stephen Herondale. Jace scowled at his reflection. "I see his hair and nose and mouth and ears. I see him in my build, the color of my skin, and the God-damn shape of my hands. I see him in every conceivable part." He turned back to her. "You look at me and see me, but the only thing I see is him. The almost perfect shadow of a man I've hated my entire life." He took a few steps toward her and his voice softened. "But when you look at me, when you want me, you make me forget all of that. When you look at me . . ." He stood right before her now and raised his hand to tuck a few pieces of flyaway hair behind her ear, and his touch flew through her like an electric shock. "When you look at me, I feel like everything you see, like only me." His thumb brushed her cheek, warm wetness spreading over her skin with the movement. "Why can't you let me do the same for you?"

Clary closed her eyes and more tears trailed down her face.

"You said before that you were having a hard time remembering who you were before all of this. But I know who you are. I've always known who you are. And I know all this shit happening to your body bothers you, but none of it matters to me. Because when I look at you, I don't see any of that. The only thing I see is you." His voice lowered to a whisper. "You're all I see too. Please, baby, let me show you. Let me show you, you."

Clary opened her eyes, blinked away the tears, and let her gaze fall on his. And he was looking at her, not at all the imperfections and flaws she saw, but at _her_. All the words she wanted to say choked in her throat, so she did the only thing she could think of to tell him "yes." Lifting her hands, her eyes never moving from his, she slipped the buttons from her coat open with trembling fingers. As it loosened around her, it felt like she was not just opening a piece of outerwear, but her whole self. It was scary and hard, and part of her wanted to clench it tighter against her, but she wanted to have those pieces of her back again. She wanted to feel like the Clary she'd once been, and she believed Jace when he said he could show her.

Once the coat was open, she shrugged it from her shoulders, pausing for just a moment at the hem of her t-shirt, before pulling it up over her head. Her body shook as the shirt fell from her fingers to the floor. Everything inside of her screamed to cover up, to not let him see, to not let anyone see, but she refused to listen and kept her stare trained on Jace's.

"Show me," she said, her words barely making a sound as they crossed her lips. "Please."

Jace took another step toward her, but instead of kissing her like she thought he would, he knelt down in front of her, bringing his hands to the band of the pants covering her belly, and pulled it down. Clary's breath caught as the expanse of reddish-purple marks were revealed to them both. Tears burned in her eyes and she held back a sob, as he leaned in, still looking up at her, and kissed her right over the most horribly scarred part.

She closed her eyes, fighting back the panic that was still there, and just let herself feel his mouth and his fingers as they trailed over her, over every mark, loving her in spite of all the ugliness in front of him. Reaching forward, she threaded her fingers through his hair, but he grabbed her hand and placed it on her stomach. With his on top, he guided her over the minute dips in her skin.

"Open your eyes," he said.

A small sob escaped from her lips, but she did as he asked and looked down. He was still staring up at her.

"Do you see?" he whispered. "Do you see it now?"

And as she gazed down at him, her eyes moving from one of his to the other, she saw.

She saw it all.

A cry rose from her throat, and she dropped down to him, her knees straddling his thighs. Her hands came up to his face and she just held it there, looking and seeing again exactly what she needed.

"I see," Clary whispered. "I see."

She leaned into him, touching her lips to his softly, feeling how he wanted more, needed more, in the way he tensed under her, but also how he held back and let her do what she needed instead. Her hands slipped from his face to his neck, and his pulse thrummed hard and steady against her palms. And then something broke inside of her, a dam of sorts that had been keeping her from feeling this, from feeling like she could hold and touch him and he could hold and touch her without shame or embarrassment. She felt it all again: the way she wanted him, the way she needed him too.

Jace's hands rested on her thighs, his fingers tense but not pulling at or digging into her. He was holding back. Clary tightened her grip on his neck and pulled him harder against her, opening her mouth and letting him know with a swipe of her tongue that he didn't have to hold back any longer. Jace's breath came out in a relieved rush and his fingers dug into her legs, tugging her closer. Clary's heart pounded hard in her chest, but this time it was not in panic or fear, this time it was all want.

Jace didn't say a word, not a single word in protest or encouragement as Clary's fingers trailed over his shoulders and down his chest to the hem of his shirt. He didn't speak with more than accelerated breaths when she tugged his shirt over his head, lowered her mouth to his bared flesh, and let her fingers fall even further to the band of his shorts. And he didn't offer a sound when she removed every last stitch of clothing from both of their bodies and lowered herself onto him, joining them together in a way they hadn't been in so long. He simply closed his eyes and let out a shuddering breath as one of his hands grasped her hip and the other trailed up her neck, cupping the back of her head gently as he held her against him.

The combination of want and love that emanated from him nearly crippled Clary once again. She'd forgotten how good this was, how good they were. She'd forgotten how well they fit and how close she felt to him when they were together this way. And she'd forgotten how much she needed him, how much they needed each other.

"Jace," she said, his name coming out breathless and shaky, as she moved above him, letting him have her, letting him feel all of her. He opened his eyes and looked up at her, and in them she saw everything he'd promised her. She saw _her_. She saw them. She saw it all. "You make me remember."

He pulled her face down to his and kissed her again, lightly, so lightly she barely felt it. "And you," he said, closing his eyes and pressing his forehead to hers, trying to breathe as she continued to move. "You devastate me. In every way possible: good, bad, and everything in between. You completely devastate me."

Clary wrapped her arms around his neck, not caring when her belly got in the way of her holding him as close as she used to, not caring that he could see and feel every imperfect inch of her marred flesh, and he wrapped his around her. And together, as they kissed and touched and gave and took, they totally and wholly devastated each other.

* * *

><p><em>Until next time, XOXO ~ddpjclaf<em>


	28. How To Let Go

**Chapter Twenty-Eight - "How To Let Go"**

_First thing's first: I'm sorry for the long wait between chapters. This winter has been so incredibly hard for my family. Not only have we been seriously sick, but in the last 6 weeks, I've had two children rushed to the ER, and both needed surgery! It's been crazy and exhausting. And, unfortunately, has left me completely without the energy to write However, I managed to finally get this done._

_So, I won't keep you long. I know you want to read. Just a couple of things before you get to it:_

_1) CITRUS WARNING – For those of you who don't like citrus, yes, there is more here. I don't tend to write a lot of citrus, and I never write it gratuitously. I realize there was just some last chapter but, well, they weren't done! And this is an important scene for Jace. It deals with an issue he's been struggling with from the very beginning. And yes, it involves sex. I suppose you could skip or skim the actual "act" but I really think you'd be missing out on some healing insight for Jace._

_2) Thank you to my betas and pre-readers: lightlacedwithbeauty, AmbroisaCA, and ktut. Without them, this would be much less pretty than it looks right now. They are an amazing group of ladies and are so, SO helpful to me!_

_Chapter songs:_

_**Eyes Closed – The Narrative (Jace looking at Clary)_

_**Guarded – Kevin Daniel (Jace/Stephen, Jace/Clary)_

_**Happy – Secrets In Stereo (J/C in the car)_

_**What If - Safetysuit_

* * *

><p>The last fingers of sunlight slipped slowly across Jace's room, retreating along the carpet, over the colorless sheets, and mingling amongst the strands of Clary's hair. The sections left in the shadows appeared almost black in color, while the lighted parts burned a bright, fiery orange. Jace had been lying there for over an hour, just looking at her, watching the gentle movement of her shoulders as she breathed the rhythmic breaths of sleep.<p>

He wanted to touch her, to run his fingers along the curve of her bare side, to follow the lines of her hip until it disappeared under the thin, white sheet, but he didn't dare. For the first time in a long time, she looked happy, serene. There were no stress lines on her forehead, no glint of worry tainting the green of her eyes; there was only quiet and softness and peace. And so he just watched. Watched and waited for her to awaken.

A vibrating buzz sounded from across the room on Jace's desk. His gaze lifted and he spotted the bright illumination of his cell phone screen. He didn't bother getting up; he knew who it would be and he had no desire to talk to him right now. The only thing Jace wanted was to lie right there, to let himself bask in the afterglow and forget about all the other shit trying to barge in on the moment. Stephen Herondale could wait. The trial could wait. It could all just God-damn wait.

Clary let out a breath and shifted slightly on the bed, locks of hair falling over her shoulder and hiding even more of her naked body from Jace's stare. All that was visible now was her face, the curve of her arm, and her stomach. Her breaths returned to the steady, soft pace they'd held before, and Jace, unable to help himself, reached out and carefully slipped his fingers under a curl that had fallen over her face. Clary scrunched her freckled nose as the strands whispered across her cheek, and Jace grinned at her expression. She was just so damn adorable.

And God, he loved her.

Jace lifted carefully and tucked the hair back over her shoulder. His fingers lingered just above her skin, and he swore he could feel the spark and heat of her crossing the divide between them. It made him want to pull her back into him, to join their bodies once more, to feel every single inch of her, steal each degree of heat, to show her again and again and again all the things he couldn't express with words.

He exhaled loudly and forced himself to focus back on her face, wincing when, even in the dying light, he could still make out the tear tracks staining her cheeks. His chest filled with the same helpless heaviness it had held earlier. As much as he wished he could, he couldn't stop himself from remembering how it had felt to hold her while she'd shed them.

They had both still been out of breath, their bodies damp with sweat and each other. Jace couldn't remember a time where he'd been so exhausted and so awake at the same time. Clary remained on top of him, breathing hard, their bodies still joined. Her arms lay draped over his shoulders and her face was buried in his neck. Jace's legs ached from the position he was in—half kneeling, half sitting on the floor—but he didn't move, he didn't want to. It had been so long since she'd let him feel her this way, so God-damn long, and, to his embarrassment, it had shown. He'd almost felt like a virgin again, what with the short amount of time he'd lasted, but Jesus, had it ever felt good. If he hadn't heard how she'd breathed his name and felt the way she shuddered above him as her nails dug into his shoulders, he would have thought he hadn't managed to satisfy her.

But even so . . .

There was this nagging ache inside of him. He didn't know what it was or why it was there, but something was not right.

It was then he'd noticed that she was shaking and he could hear quiet, hiccuping gasps. Panic had flooded him immediately, and he'd wrapped one arm around her waist and lifted the other to her neck, cupping it gently and turning his face toward her.

"Baby?" he'd said, trying to pull her face out of the nook she'd created in the curve of his shoulder.

But she hadn't allowed him to move her. Instead, she'd shaken her head, tightened her grip around him, and sobbed harder. She was mumbling something, but Jace couldn't make it out for the longest time, as she was crying it into his skin. Alarm peaked inside of him as a myriad of scenarios ran through his mind. Had he hurt her? Did she regret what they'd done? Had he just made everything worse by allowing her to sleep with him? He had asked her all of those things, but she'd just shaken her head harder and continued to cry. Jace was at a loss, his mind racing and his heart pounding, and so he'd done the only thing he could think to do: he held onto her tighter as she fell apart in his arms.

Finally, after a few minutes, she'd turned her face slightly, and he could hear her strained, shaking whisper. The words she spoke broke him even more than he'd already been.

"I'm sorry," she said, her voice stilted and rough. "I'm so sorry. I love you. I'm so scared. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

There were no words he could say to calm her, so he'd gathered her up and took her into his bed. She'd curled into him, her body still trembling, as his hands moved over her back and through her hair. He comforted her with his touch and his lips, pressing kisses to her forehead and temple, until her sobs turned to whimpers, and then her whimpers to sniffs. And within moments, she was asleep.

That had been over an hour ago, and Jace hadn't moved.

Jace glanced at where his fingers now hovered over the smooth curve of her shoulder. He wanted so badly to lower it and feel her against his skin, to know that she was really there and okay. He was desperate for that knowledge. But she was exhausted; he could tell she was by the dullness in her eyes when she'd first stepped through his door, and so he would let her sleep. No matter how much he wanted to know what had happened after they'd been together.

Reluctantly, he moved his hand back to the bed, settling it on the mattress between them. Just as his fingers touched the cool sheets, his phone started again. Jace cursed to himself and pushed up out of the bed, pulling on his boxers on his way to the desk. He still didn't want to talk but knew if he didn't, Stephen would keep calling.

Grabbing the offending object from his desk, Jace peeked back at Clary's sleeping form. Her shoulders were still moving in the same even rhythm. Jace turned toward the door and stole out of the room into the hall. The lights were dim, and emptiness echoed all around him. The weight of how truly alone he was in this big house settled uncomfortably over him.

Jace shook the feeling off and slid his thumb across the lock bar, lifting the phone to his ear.

"What?" he said irritably.

"Uh . . . I'm sorry, is this . . . is this Jace Wayland?"

Jace frowned at the unfamiliar voice on the other end of the line. "Who the hell wants to know?"

"This is Luke Garroway. Head Coach of the Northern University Rams."

"Shit," Jace said, almost dropping his phone. "I mean . . . shit."

Luke's chuckle echoed through the phone. "No need to apologize, son. I realize I caught you off guard."

"No, I—I'm sorry, sir. I didn't mean to be such an asshole, I—" Jace paused, realizing he'd cussed again. "Shiiiiiit." He gripped his hair and pulled hard to ground himself.

Luke laughed harder. "How about we start over?"

"Yes, please."

"Jace," Luke cleared his throat, "this is Luke Garroway from the Northern University Rams. How are you this evening?"

Jace grinned to himself and lowered his hand from his hair. "Fine, sir. And you?"

"Just fine. Listen, I don't want to keep you, as I'm sure you have better things to do this weekend than entertain a phone call from me, but I wanted to touch base with you and extend an invitation to our meet and greet next weekend. It's for our new incoming players, to give them a chance to meet the remaining team and tour the stadium, locker room, things like that."

"Oh," Jace said. "But . . . I haven't signed. I'm . . . I just . . ." He blew out a breath and stared up at the ceiling. "I still don't know what's going to happen . . . I don't know what I'm doing next year yet, so I didn't want to make a commitment."

"No, it's okay. I understand that, son. There's no pressure. But . . . you do still want to play ball, don't you, Jace?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I do."

And he did. He still loved the game, loved the feeling of power he gained when he threw a perfect spiral, loved the rush in his veins when the crowd chanted his name. It may have been completely egotistical and vain, but it was what it was.

"Then you should come. Regardless of what happens, you should at least come see what we have to offer. You could treat it as a look-see rather than an orientation."

Jace lowered his head and looked at his feet. In the past he'd been used to being courted by scouts and football fanatics. But lately . . . lately he'd felt more like a pariah. Each of the schools that had once followed him around, lapping at his heels, had turned their backs and walked away. He didn't understand what was so different about Luke Garroway and Northern University. "Why are you doing this?"

"Doing what?"

"Bending over backward for me. I might not even be able to go to college next year, if . . . well, you know."

Jace heard Luke sigh. "Because I don't believe it's going to come down to that. I really don't. And I don't want you to give up just because you think things might not be okay. I know you have plenty of reasons to fight already, but I want you to have one more. You deserve this. I've never seen a player so dedicated to his game, and you have such a natural talent. It'd be a shame to throw that away."

"I still don't understand," Jace said, his voice quiet and unsure. "I don't understand why you're doing this for me. Why me?"

"Sometimes people just do things because other people deserve it."

Jace had no idea how to respond to that.

"Listen," Luke said, before Jace even had a chance to try to come up with anything. "I'm on my way out the door, but just wanted to call to extend the invitation. You are by no means obligated, but I hope you'll at least consider coming."

"I will."

"Good. Hope to see you next weekend."

Jace hung up and glanced down at the phone, inhaling slowly. His chest was tight with . . . some sort of feeling he didn't understand. He had no idea what the hell he was doing with his life. There were so many things he wanted, yet so many things that were completely outside of his control. He didn't have a clue as to where to even start to wade through the shit-storm his life had become. The only thing he was sure of was that he wanted to take the reins back. He wanted to be the master of his own fate.

Not his father.

Not Valentine Morgenstern.

Not a statutory rape conviction.

Him.

And there was only one way he could start.

Holding his breath, Jace turned on his phone, scrolled through his contacts, and clicked on the one name he had no desire to call.

It only took one ring before Stephen picked up the phone.

"Jace? Oh, thank goodness. You sounded so off earlier, I was worried."

"What? Why?" Jace blinked. "Why would you be worried? I'm fine."

"Parents always worry about their—"

Jace sucked in a breath at the word. _Parents._

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—I'm so sorry," Stephen stammered.

Jace's heart felt like it was going to beat out of his chest. He swallowed against the tightness in his throat and pushed away the strange sensation rolling in his stomach.

"What do we need to do, Stephen?"

The name came out of Jace's mouth like a curse, as if he were trying to remind Stephen Herondale exactly who he was to Jace. And maybe he was, although he hadn't really intended it that way. He didn't know what way he'd meant it at all. The only thing he knew for certain was that it was taking everything he had to remain on the phone with this man. It didn't seem to matter that he'd been the one to call, or that Stephen really was trying to help him. He still wanted off the phone. Now.

Stephen cleared his throat. "I know how difficult this is for you, Jace, but we really—"

"You do?" Heat rushed into Jace's face. He could feel his defenses rising, brick by brick, row by row. It wasn't something conscious, but it also wasn't something he seemed to be able to stop. The mere insinuation that Stephen Herondale knew anything about Jace or the way he felt made Jace's blood boil. "Do you really know how 'difficult' this is?"

"I . . . well, I think I do . . ."

"I highly doubt it."

Stephen sighed again, and this time it took on a tone of defeat. "Maybe not, but I can imagine how I would feel in your situation and it wouldn't feel good."

Jace remained silent, warring with himself to not continue to act like a dick. He knew, somewhere deep inside, that Stephen was trying to separate the knowledge of Jace's legal troubles from the fact that he was Jace's biological father, and that it must have been difficult. But Jace didn't care; he just couldn't handle that shit.

"I really do get it, Jace. More than you know . . ." Stephen continued. "I also get that you have a hard time trusting me, that you probably have a hard time trusting anyone given what you've been through. I'm trying really hard to keep my perspective where you're concerned. I'm fighting with myself to remain professional, to treat you as I would any other client as you asked, but I can't just erase the knowledge of who you are to me. And I . . . I don't want to."

Jace closed his eyes and pushed his hand into his hair. "You have to," he said, his voice catching. "I need . . . I can't . . ."

"I know. But just because I know doesn't mean I can stop—"

"Please don't," Jace said, and he was very aware of the way his voice pleaded. He _hated_ it. He hated the way it sounded, how it felt. He hated the way his heart beat faster and his mouth went dry. He hated every single God-damn thing about the whole situation.

Stephen exhaled. "I'm sorry. You're right." He cleared his throat, and Jace lowered his hand, realizing then that it was shaking. "As for what we discussed earlier . . ."

Jace could hear the "lawyer tone" slip back into Stephen's voice, but it was subdued and forced. A part of him wished he weren't still so pissed, that he could accept that maybe Stephen meant the things he said, but then the pissed part of him threatened to come kick the shit out of his pansy-assed side that dared think that. He didn't want Stephen to be sorry. He didn't want to forgive him or to feel conflicted about what the man meant to him. He wanted to stay angry and bitter. Hate was all Jace had ever known when it came to his biological father, and, in the past, it had made him stronger, tougher. At least, he thought it had. Now he wasn't so sure.

"We really should get together to go over the things we need to before the meeting with the judge. If we can get him to sympathize, we could get the charges lessened or even, however slim the possibility, dropped. But we need a game plan."

"Fine." Jace rubbed his forehead, noticing and hating the trembling in his voice. "How about tomorrow? But I don't want to come back to the office. It's too 'stick-up-the-ass' for me there." And he also couldn't take seeing all Stephen's happy pictures with his family.

His new family. The one he'd chosen over Jace.

Stephen chuckled lightly. "Believe me, it's too 'stick-up-the-ass' for me too most days. My job in general is a bit . . . dry."

"Then why the hell'd you become a lawyer?" The words were out before Jace had a chance to think about the fact that he was inquiring about the life of a man he didn't want to know.

Stephen was quiet for several seconds before he answered, "Because that's what was expected of me." He paused. "Sometimes people do things they don't really want to do when forces they deem stronger than them tell them too. Sometimes people aren't strong enough to stand up and say no."

Jace didn't speak. A strange feeling welled up inside of him, and he got the idea that Stephen wasn't just talking about his job.

"Is that what happened then?" he asked, his voice quiet, and his pulse racing. He hadn't asked the whole question_, Is that what happened with you and me?,_ but he was pretty sure Stephen already knew what he meant.

"Does it really matter in the grand scheme of things?"

"Maybe."

Stephen breathed out. "I don't think it does. At least not for me. I may have been young and impressionable and in desperate need of approval, but in the end, my decisions were mine. Bad and good. It really doesn't matter what anyone else may have said or done to try and influence me. I should have been stronger. I should have fought. I should have been more like you."

Jace couldn't speak; he couldn't breathe.

"I know you don't want to have this conversation, Jace, and I'm going to respect that. But I just have to say one thing. Just one, and then I'll try to forget it, unless you tell me otherwise." He paused, and Jace could feel every second Stephen didn't speak, like he was staring into the barrel of a gun, just waiting for the shooter to pull the trigger. "What I did . . . to you . . . I have never regretted anything more. I don't think I will ever forgive myself, so I will never ask you to extend me a courtesy I do not feel I deserve. And I just . . . I need to help you out of this; I need to give you the chance to be the one thing I was too cowardly to be at your age. It's the only thing I can allow myself to want from you, because I know how much I don't deserve anything else."

A painful tightness squeezed Jace's chest. There was nothing he could say to that, no way to respond because he _didn't_ forgive Stephen, but there was a part of him that wanted to be a big enough man to at least consider it. He closed his eyes and shook the thought out of his mind. No. No!

He swallowed and answered in a thick voice, "Tomorrow. At the diner."

When Stephen spoke, his lawyer voice was back, just like Jace needed it to be. "Of course. I'll see you there at noon."

Jace didn't bother to respond and clicked the end button. There was a heaviness settling over him, one that was different from the oppressive weight of his hate and unwillingness to forgive, one he couldn't breathe through or swallow back. It was questioning, regretful, and he couldn't seem to make it go away. Damn Stephen Herondale and his ability to make Jace feel things he didn't want to feel. He had no right. He had—

Soft strains of music floated through the air from the direction of his room, infiltrating the silent hall and Jace's screaming mind. Frowning, he moved toward the door and inclined his head toward it. And, just like he'd thought, the sound of a guitar emanated through the wood. It was just imperfect enough for him to know it wasn't coming from his stereo.

Carefully twisting the knob, Jace pushed the door open and froze when he laid eyes on the scene before him. Clary was now awake, sitting half on the edge of his bed, and holding a guitar in her lap. Her eyes were closed as she strummed, and she seemed engrossed enough not to notice he'd entered the room.

Jace swallowed hard as he took her in. She sat bent over the instrument, one bare leg tucked underneath her, and the other hanging over the edge of the bed. The fingers of one hand curled gently and familiarly around the neck, while the other moved over the strings. But what caught his attention most was what she was wearing. One of his oversized, white dress shirts swallowed her body, the neck open and slipping ever so slightly off of one of her shoulders, the arms rolled up to her elbows. With each strumming movement of her hand, the shirt slipped a little further down and only the vibrant strands of her red hair hid parts of her the shirt should have. The whole image was stunning, perfect, and so beautiful it hurt. She was so in the moment, so at peace, so _her_. Jace could have lived the rest of his life just staring at the contentment on her face and it would have been enough.

Clary hummed quietly along with her playing, and the song became more and more recognizable to Jace.

"I wouldn't have thought you'd be a fan of this kind of music."

Clary opened her eyes and grinned over at him. There was no trace of the emotion she'd shown earlier. She looked happy, and the thought of her feeling at least some relief gave Jace just a little of it that he needed too. "Why wouldn't I be? There's more to me than dance songs and eighties hits, you know."

Jace nodded and crossed the room, sitting down on the bed beside her. He didn't say anything and let his eyes roam over her. Her face pinked slightly at his perusal. He had no doubt she could see in his stare exactly what she was doing to him.

"I borrowed a shirt," she said, as if he wanted or needed an explanation. "I felt weird sleeping naked and didn't want to put that hideous thing on again." She lifted her chin toward the maternity shirt crumpled into a ball on the floor near the end of the bed. "Plus, I always thought it would be kind of sexy to wear a guy's dress shirt. Though I never really pictured myself doing it while pregnant, but, well . . ." She shrugged and looked back down at the guitar, strumming a few more chords and humming the melody.

Jace reached over and moved her hair behind her shoulder, revealing more of her lightly freckled skin, and bent to press a kiss to the curve of her neck. "It _is_ sexy." He brushed his lips up until he met the edge of her jaw. "And so is the fact that you can play guitar. Why didn't you tell me you could?"

"Why didn't you tell me _you_ could?" She glanced back at him.

"Because I can't."

Clary raised her brows. "Then why was this in your closet? Whose is it?"

"It's mine." Jace chuckled when Clary's expression became even more confused. "When I was a kid, my mom taught me piano, but my dad thought piano was, quote, 'for gender-confused pussies,' so he bought me the guitar. He said it 'was a much more acceptable male instrument.' I had no interest in it though, so it's been in there for as long as I can remember."

"So you play piano? God, that's hot. Will you show me sometime?"

"Oh, yeah, I'm sure my near flawless rendition of Chopsticks will knock your socks off."

Clary laughed and shook her head. "Seeing you in front of a piano would knock a lot more than my socks off, I assure you. There's just something about a man and a musical instrument that is so sexy."

"Maybe I should just hold this guitar then." Jace motioned to take the instrument from Clary, but she slapped at his hands and started picking at the strings once more.

"No way! This one's mine!" She grinned, and Jace could barely contain what he felt at seeing her so carefree, even if it was just for a moment.

He'd always thought the concept of "butterflies in the stomach" sounded like such an idiotic thing, but damn it all to hell if this girl didn't make him feel like his body was crawling with them.

"Come here," he said, leaning into her.

Clary obeyed and shifted toward him, her lips brushing lightly across his. A shiver rippled over Jace's skin, raising goosebumps on every exposed piece of flesh. Reaching up, he cupped his hand around her neck and pulled her into him harder. He hadn't meant to get carried away with it, but when he felt the tip of Clary's tongue prod against his lower lip, he couldn't help opening up for her, almost groaning as her taste filled him. His heart raced and his stomach twisted in desire, but there was something tugging at the edges of his mind. Reluctantly, he pulled away, pressing a few chaste kisses to her pouting mouth, before meeting her eyes.

"Are you okay?"

Clary didn't bother with fake assurances or asking what he meant. He could see in her eyes that she knew exactly what he was asking.

"Yeah," she said, reaching up to move a few strands of his hair out of his eyes. Her touch lingered at his temple, her fingers warm and soft. "I am now. I'm sorry about earlier. I think I was just . . . overwhelmed." She shook her head. "I don't really know." Her cheeks colored and she lowered her gaze.

"Hey," Jace said, tucking his fingers under her chin and lifting her eyes to his. "It's okay. You don't owe me an apology. I just wanted to make sure it wasn't anything else."

"Like what?"

He grimaced. "Well . . . I thought, at first . . . I thought maybe I'd hurt you. Or you were upset over what we did."

Clary shook her head. "I wasn't upset. And you could never hurt me."

"I did once. And I always worry I might again." He touched her face, tracing the fragile bones beneath her skin. It was always something he was aware of in the back of his mind, how much he'd hurt her that night. When they were together, when she trusted him above her, it was all he could focus on, being careful, being gentle. He was almost grateful that her stomach got in the way of him being in control now. When she was the one hovering over him, she could take him in any way she wanted: hard and fast, or slow and soft, and he didn't have to worry about his instincts causing her harm. He could just enjoy the feel of her around him. "I'm always so aware of how . . . breakable you are. I have to be so careful with you."

Clary grabbed his hand. "No you don't." Her voice was tinged in anger. Jace raised his brows. "I'm not something you have to treat with kid gloves. I'm tough and strong, and I don't want you to think touching me with anything less than every ounce of want in your body is enough." She entwined their fingers. "Your passion for the things that mean something to you is one of the things I love most about you. It inspires me. It gives me hope that we can get through all of this alive. Don't hide any of your passion for me because you think it'll break me." She whispered, "Because if that's what it takes, I want to be broken. I want to feel the desperation in your hands, hear the 'please' on your lips. I want to taste the need on your tongue. I want to know that you're giving me everything, because I'm giving everything to you."

"Jesus," Jace breathed. "Are you trying to turn me on right now? Because, brava." He swallowed hard and tried to redirect his thoughts from the warmth leeching from every point in his body and pooling in his lap. "And where did you learn how to talk all sexy and . . . flowery and shit?"

"Maybe from your 'flowery' ass." She kissed him, lightly. "You do give the sexiest speeches."

Jace laughed and Clary grinned back at him. But, after a moment, the light in her eyes faded slightly and her smile wavered. A flash of sadness passed over her face.

He touched the edge of her mouth with his thumb. "What?"

Clary kissed his fingertip and sighed. "Nothing. I just . . . I like this. Being with you like this. Laughing and joking and flirting."

"So why the sad look?"

Clary closed her eyes and sighed. "Because the second I leave this room it goes away. It always goes away, and I just want it to stay."

"I know," Jace said, brushing his thumb back and forth along her jaw. "I do too."

Clary leaned into his hand and opened her eyes, piercing him with green. "Do you think it will ever be this way? That we can ever have this . . . this . . . normal?"

"I don't know," he answered truthfully, and pressed his forehead to hers. "But I'm going to try really hard to make it happen."

"But what if you can't? What if you don't get a chance? What if—"

"Shh," he said, pressing his finger over her lips. "That's not going to happen."

"You don't know that," she whispered. "My father . . . he's not going to stop. He's . . . he's planning something. I heard him talking to some guy earlier, but I missed what they were talking about. Something about two weeks . . ."

Jace nodded. "Stephen called earlier and I just talked with him a few minutes ago when I was out in the hall. The judge has asked for a preliminary hearing in two weeks."

Clary deflated, her shoulders sagging and her body slumping where she sat. "But that's so soon."

"It's gonna be okay."

"But what if it's not?" Her eyes pleaded with his. "What if it's not okay? What if they convict you, send you to jail? What if—"

"Then we'll deal with it. But I don't think that's going to happen. Stephen won't let that happen."

Clary's eyes widened, and she glanced from one of his to the other. "You trust him now?"

Jace opened his mouth and snapped it shut once more, realizing for the first time that, for this, he did. "I . . . I kind of have to, don't I? I really don't have a choice. And . . ." That conflicted feeling he'd had earlier when talking to Stephen, and the day before with Nana, came back full force. There was something inside of him that grew every single day, a yearning, a desire that he'd never known before. "I kind of want to." He blew out a breath as the comprehension of what he was saying washed over him. "I'm so tired. I'm so tired of feeling like this all the time. It just takes so God-damn much energy, and I'm tired. I'm so tired of not knowing where he fits . . ." He let out a breath and whispered what he really meant, ". . . where I fit."

Clary stared at him for a few seconds longer, then shifted, letting the guitar slip to the ground, and rose up onto her knees in front of him. Her hair fell over her shoulders as she leaned forward. Reaching out, she took his face in her hands and brushed her thumbs over his cheeks. Her mouth curved into a small, sad smile. "Remember when I said the same thing to you, about how I didn't belong, and you told me I belonged with you?"

Jace nodded.

"Then you should already know where you fit." She picked up one of his hands and pressed it to her chest, over the thumping beat of her heart. "You fit right here." Then she moved his hand to her stomach, and he felt their son move against his palm. "You fit here." She lifted her hand once more and rested it back on his face. "And you deserve to fit with Stephen too, if that's what you really want."

"What if I don't know what I really want?"

"I think . . . maybe you do."

Jace closed his eyes, shaking his head before lowering it. "I don't want to want that."

"Why not?"

"Because it hurts. It hurts to let go of it all. And I don't . . . I don't know if I have the strength to do it."

Clary's hands were still on his face, her fingers holding him gently. "You do. You're so strong, sweetheart. So strong." She paused. "If you want, I could show you."

Jace opened his eyes. "Show me what?"

"How to let go."

Her fingers trailed over his jaw and down his neck, and he shivered under her touch. It was like she was dragging a hot piece of coal across his flesh, his skin lighting up and burning under it. His hands ached to reach out for her, to hold her as hard and tight as he could, to crawl under her skin and make them as close to one being as possible. But he fought against the urge and, instead, cupped her face, his fingers trembling slightly with restrained need.

Clary pressed her mouth to his and spoke through her kiss. "Touch me, Jace."

"I am," he breathed, his fingers lightly tracing the curve of her cheek, not knowing how this was showing him how to let go of his issues with Stephen, but more than willing to find out.

She shook her head and took his hand, sliding it down her neck and into the opening of her shirt. Jace's breath caught when his palm took the shape of the soft, curved flesh beneath it. Clary squeezed his hand, tightening his grip on her. "Touch me," she repeated, removing her hand from his and placing it behind his neck, digging her fingers into him and pulling him roughly toward her.

Jace's fingers involuntarily stiffened against her skin as she continued tugging on him, settling her body against the propped up pillows behind her. But just as he felt her thighs brush the outside of his torso and his chest bump her stomach, he fought against her hold.

"Wait, Clary."

She blinked up at him. "What?"

"Not this way, baby."

"Why not?"

"I'll hurt you. If you want to, we can . . ." He tried to maneuver her body so she was in the dominant position.

But Clary tightened her grip on him, not allowing him to move her from where she lay, and looked him in the eye. "I thought you were going to let me show you."

Jace furrowed his brow. "I am, but—and don't take this to mean I'm complaining about your methods, because I certainly am not—but how is this showing me how to let go with Stephen?"

"I didn't say it was."

"But I thought—"

Clary shook her head to silence his words and pulled him to her. Jace straightened his arms, so none of his body rested on hers. He could feel the buzz of her dancing in the small space between them, and, God, did he ever want to just let himself go. But he couldn't risk it. As he thought this, Clary's legs wrapped around his hips and dragged his lower half in until it rested flush against hers.

Jace's strength faltered as her warmth seeped through the thin layers between them. He couldn't hold back the groaned, "Shiiiiiit," that escaped through his teeth. His breath sped and his fingers fisted into the sheets below them.

"This isn't really about Stephen. It's about us."

Jace met her gaze. "What do you mean?"

"Well, you remember how yesterday I was afraid to even let you look at me?"

He nodded.

"It's kind of about that."

"Okay . . . but I thought we'd already covered that."

"We have, but . . . let me explain . . . I knew after you left Isabelle's that I was being irrational and stupid and that I needed to tell you what was going on with me, but I . . ." She drew in a breath. "When I came to tell you today . . . Do you know how mortifying that was? To stand in front of you and tell you that? It was so embarrassing, but I couldn't help it. There was something inside me that told me maybe you'd feel the same as I did. That you'd be just as repulsed as me." She paused. "But you weren't. You told me I didn't need to feel that way, because you could never see me as anything other than who I am." Her fingers loosened on his neck and moved up into his hair. "And that who I am is beautiful to you."

Jace swallowed.

"So I pushed that fear aside, Jace. I pushed it aside and I let you see me. I let you touch me. And now I just feel . . . I just feel happy. I feel free." Stretching forward, she kissed him lightly on the jaw and then the chin. "I just want you to feel that too. I know your demons and fears are deeper than mine, but there's one . . . one I think I can help with. Let me help you with this. Let this one fear go, and then maybe . . . maybe some of the others will follow."

When Jace spoke, his voice was merely a breath. "Which fear is that?"

Clary stared at him knowingly. "You know which one."

Jace closed his eyes and lowered his forehead to her chest. Invisible chains of fear and regret squeezed his heart. "I can't. If I do, I might hurt you again. I can't . . ."

Clary's fingers threaded through his hair, and it felt so good the way she comforted him, the way she always knew just how to touch him. "You won't," she said. "We were different people that night, you know?" She handled him so carefully it made him suck in a breath. "But from what I remember, you didn't mean to hurt me then either. No, I know you didn't. How could you have known what I was? How could you have known to be more careful when I didn't tell you to?" She paused. "But even if I'd been completely sober . . . I'm not sure I would have wanted anything different."

"How could you not?"

"Because that night . . . that night I'm pretty sure I got all of you. We were completely in the moment. All that mattered was how we felt and what we wanted. I wish so much I could remember it, that I could remember what it was like to have you that way."

Jace closed his eyes and kissed the pad of her thumb, just as she'd done to him earlier, when it moved over his lips.

"I know you hold back; in some way, I've always known that. But . . . I trust you, Jace. With my mind. With my heart. Why wouldn't I trust you with my body? And . . . I need you to trust me with yours. I need you to trust me when I say it's okay. When I say I forgive you for that night." Her voice lowered to a whisper. "When I say I need all of you now, that I need all of you always. Unrestrained. Unafraid."

Jace opened his eyes and peered down at her, noticing the pleading in her stare.

"I need you to let down your guard, let go of that fear, and just be with me. No thinking. No regret. Just you and me, because there shouldn't be anything to fear or regret when it's just us."

Jace could feel how hard his heart was beating and how hot his entire body was in every place it touched hers. God, he wanted this. She was right. She'd bared her fear to him and let him help her overcome it. Why couldn't he do the same? He was tired of these chains locking parts of him away. He wanted that happiness she spoke of, that freedom.

"How did I get lucky enough to deserve you?" he asked.

Clary smiled, softly, and her eyes gleamed in the low light. She touched his face, her fingertips brushing along his cheekbone. "You stayed," she said. "When I told you, you didn't walk away. You didn't leave me to deal with it on my own, like I expected. You stayed."

"I'm glad I stayed," he whispered.

"Show me."

Nervousness and want pulsed through his veins and tingled in the tips of his fingers. He lifted one of his hands and found the opening in the front of her shirt. Clary's chest rose and fell as he kissed the bared skin along her shoulder and popped open the first of the buttons hiding her body from his gaze. He traced his fingers down to the next and ran his nose along the length of her neck, until he reached her ear.

"I'll try," he said, as the button came free and he slipped his hand inside, just as Clary turned her head and found his mouth with her own. She tasted like her, no mint, no lingering flavor of food, nothing but her. And God, she was perfect. So damn perfect.

Clary's fist tightened in his hair, pain radiating through his scalp but feeling amazing at the same time, as she hardened their kiss. Her thighs squeezed him and her feet pushed against his legs, begging him closer, harder, more. Not a single inch of space remained between them there, and Jace could not control the way his hips shifted against her.

A quiet sound of pleasure worked its way up his throat, and Jace could feel himself spiraling, his body responding, his heart racing, and those chains tightening around his self-control. They were warning him. Warning him to back off, to slow down, to calm down. But he didn't want to. He didn't want calm; he didn't want careful. He just _wanted. _

Clary's hands slipped to his shoulders and tugged against them, begging him to let go. He could hear her _please_ in his mind. And slowly, link-by-link, the chains weakened and started to snap, falling away with a reverberating clang inside his mind. His breath escaped him in relief, and he shifted off of Clary, both his feet hitting the floor.

Clary let out a surprised whimper and reached out for him, as if she feared he was leaving. But he wasn't going anywhere. With a strength he hadn't used on her since—he assumed—that night, he grabbed her hips and pulled her to the edge of the bed, his fingers digging into her flesh roughly. Underneath his hands, he could feel the hardness of her pelvis, the strength in her muscles as they reached for him, and he knew then that she was not fragile, she was not so breakable; she was strong. Strong enough for him; strong enough for all of this.

His fingers tightened as he leaned over her, his heart pounding to the rhythm of her ragged breaths. She'd wanted unrestrained, and he was going to give it to her. It was almost painful how much he wanted her this way.

Her eyes widened, darkness swallowing her irises. And Jesus, she looked magnificent like that: beautiful and feral. Clary rose up on her elbows and grabbed him by the back of the neck, pulling him down to her, her mouth open and wanting.

Jace caught himself just long enough to drag the pillows back underneath to support her, and then he let go. He let himself have; he let_ her_ have. His body curved around her, pressing against every available inch, consuming her, overtaking her. Their skin slipped and slid; their hands roamed and pulled.

Clary's legs wrapped around Jace's waist and held him flush against her once more. Their mouths collided, tongues tangled, and breaths were shared. After he'd managed to undo the rest of the buttons on her shirt, Jace's hands devoured her flesh. The fabric hung loosely off of her as his arms wrapped around her back, and his mouth moved down her neck to her chest. Her skin tasted salty and sweet, like her, and even a little like him. He couldn't get enough. No matter how much he kissed and licked and sucked, it was never even close to enough.

Clary's head fell back and her arms loosened around him, as Jace kissed his way down her body, her breathing increasing the further he went. His hands trailed over her chest, her stomach, her thighs, everywhere he could reach, as did his mouth, and she was a trembling mess of need by the time he worked his way back up.

Grabbing his face, she kissed him deeply, her tongue desperately searching for his, her teeth nipping at his lips. And Jace felt his own restraint slipping, his fingers digging into her thighs as he held onto her for dear life. Clary's hands slid down his chest, her nails scratching over every dip, causing Jace to shudder and jerk, until they reached the band of his boxers. She paused for a second, and then she was inside, her skin on his, her fingers circling him. His breath faltered as he moved involuntarily against her palm. Shit, it felt good, so damn good.

"God, I want you," he breathed. "I want you so much."

Clary removed her hand from him and started tugging on the only piece of material between them. "Now," she said, her voice rough. "Please, now."

Jace tried to help her remove his boxers, but he'd only gotten them part way down his thighs before her legs tightened around him and her hands were on his ass, tugging him forward once more. And with one slight shift of his hips, he was there, right there, surrounded by her, by heat, by perfection, and it was all he could do to not lose his mind.

Both of them let out a slow, shuddering breath, but as Jace pulled back to move, Clary gripped his biceps frantically, her nails digging in. Jace looked down at her, at the dampness of the curls against her forehead, the sheen of the skin of her shoulders, the wide darkness of her panicked eyes.

"Don't," she said. "Please."

Jace heard the fear in her voice, and he knew exactly what she meant. So he leaned in, pressed his forehead to hers, and tucked his arms underneath her body, his hands cupping her ass as he started to move: slow, long, purposeful. "I'm not. I won't. I promise."

Clary's hands moved up his arms and into his hair as she held him close. "I love you," she said. "I love you so much."

Jace kissed her in response and then returned his forehead to hers. "Can I go faster?" he asked, his voice faltering when Clary's fingers tightened in his hair. "Harder?"

Clary nodded and bit her lip.

"Oh God. Okay," Jace groaned. "Please don't let me hurt you." Clary shook her head, and then he did exactly as he'd asked; he went faster, harder.

Their bodies moved in perfect synchronization, their breaths and hearts and hands working as one to take them where they wanted to go. And as they climbed higher and higher, Jace could feel the last of the chains that had held him locked into the shame and regret of that night falling away all around them. It opened him up and let him go, as if the gates to his own personal hell had been swung wide and he was standing on the outside once again.

No longer a prisoner.

No longer afraid.

He could see and feel everything: everything he wanted and everything he had missed, and everything that was now within his reach.

And finally, _finally_, as Clary held him tight and trembled beneath him, his name a sigh among the ragged breaths that overtook the twilight-filled room, he was free.

.o.O.o.

The chill of the nighttime air swirling around inside the car did nothing to cool the burn inside of Clary. Her body ached. Not in a bad way, but in a good way. A very good way. She ran her tongue over her bottom lip; Jace's taste was still strong there, as was the lingering tingle of his hands on her body and the smell of him on her skin. It was as if she'd bathed in him, and, in a way, she had. A smile pulled at her lips and a deep heat filled her cheeks at the thought.

"What are you grinning about?" Jace asked.

Clary turned toward him. He glanced at her from his spot in the driver's seat, the streetlights from outside intermittently illuminating the mess of his hair and the slight flush of his cheeks. He looked completely and thoroughly done over, and Clary could not help the smug feeling that _she_ had been the one to make him look that way. She smiled deeper.

"Nothing. Everything."

Jace shook his head and turned back to the road, a small grin gracing his lips. He reached over and took her hand, his fingers warm and sure inside hers, and brought it up to his mouth. He kissed it, then lowered their hands to the seat between them, his thumb caressing her softly. She shivered. It still, after all this time, amazed her how she could feel so safe, so secure, so happy, just from a simple touch, smile, word, kiss. She wondered if she made him feel the same. She hoped she did.

"Jace?"

"Hmm?"

She paused for a moment. "Are you happy?"

He looked back at her and frowned. "Like, in general, or . . ."

"No. I mean, right now. Right in this moment. Are you happy?"

Jace stared at her for a few seconds, his brows furrowed. When they smoothed out, he nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, I am." He shook his head. "God. How pathetic is it that I had to think about that?"

"Not pathetic. I think happiness is kind of a foreign emotion for both of us lately. But I . . . I really like seeing you this way. I just wish it could last . . . for both of us."

Jace sighed and pulled up to a stop sign, putting his car into park. The streets were quiet, as most of the rush hour traffic was long gone. So it was just them, alone in the dark with the empty, white world surrounding them. He reached out for her, cupping her face in his hands and pulling her closer, placing a soft kiss to her lips.

"I know this sucks. I hope . . . I hope maybe it'll suck a little less soon, but I just want you to know that . . . that in spite of all of this shit, despite how moody I might seem, whenever I'm with you I _am_ happy." His thumbs brushed over her cheeks. "You make me happy, Clary. You and . . ." he glanced down at her stomach, "you and him."

"You make me happy too," Clary said. "And . . . and sometimes he does too. Like when he pushes back against my fingers at night. That's pretty cool."

Jace chuckled quietly and shook his head, staring at her stomach. "It's weird, isn't it?"

"What?"

Reaching out, he ran his hand over the bulge, so gently, so carefully. "That this could make us feel anything other than bad. After all we've been through, the circumstances surrounding it all, that we could be . . . happy . . . about this."

"I'm not happy about the situation," Clary said, laying her hand over his and directing it to the spot just under her ribs where she could feel the baby moving. Jace's eyes lit in fascination, like they always did when he could feel it. "But that look, the one on your face when you touch him or think about him, that makes me happy. That you don't hate me for all of this. That you don't hate him."

"I could never hate you. I could never hate him," Jace said. "I love you. I—I love . . . him." He let out a breath. "I love him, and it feels so strange because I've never even met him. I don't know what he looks like or sounds like. I don't . . . I don't even know his name. But I love him all the same. Because he's you, and he's me."

Clary's eyes stung. "I . . . well, I kinda have an idea about that."

"About what?"

"The whole name thing."

Jace's brows rose and his mouth opened as if he were about to ask her a question, when the sound of a horn blared. Clary jumped and Jace twisted to peer behind them.

"Shit," he said, putting the car in drive and pulling up to the side of the road, letting the car pass, and parked near the curb. Turning back to her, he gave her an expectant look.

Clary bit her lip and looked down at her hands, embarrassment flooding into her cheeks.

"Hey," Jace said, his fingers brushing her face. "Why are you blushing? Is it that bad?"

She laughed and shook her head. "No, I'm just afraid you won't like it."

"Why wouldn't I—" He cut off and Clary looked up. He was staring at her with suspicion. "You don't want to, like, name him after your dad or something, do you?"

"What?" Clary's voice rose. "God, no! Why would you even ask that?"

"I don't know!" Jace raised his hands. "How am I supposed to know if it wasn't a family name and you loved your grandpa Valentine a whole lot or something?" He seemed flustered at the thought, and Clary couldn't help but snort.

"No. Never, ever, ever."

"Thank God. I mean, I love you, baby, but I am not naming my kid that. Not only is the guy a major asshole, but that's a seriously pansy name."

Clary took his face in her hands and met his eyes. "I wouldn't name our baby after my dad—even if I didn't hate him. Because . . ." she said, watching him closely as she spoke, wondering how he would react, if he'd be upset or happy. "I think he would be much more honored to carry his own father's name."

For a moment, there was no reaction. Jace just stared at her, not a single emotion flickering in his eyes. Clary started to worry that maybe she shouldn't have said anything, that maybe she should have waited, and then Jace sucked in a breath, his eyes widening as he pulled away.

"What?" he said. "You—what?"

Clary exhaled, her chest tightening at his reaction. "You don't like it."

"No, I . . . no, I don't not like it, I'm just . . . I'm . . ." He closed his eyes and struggled to breathe. Opening them once more, he settled his gaze on hers. "Really?"

"Yeah." Clary nodded. "But if you really don't like the idea, we can—"

Before Clary could get out another word, Jace had her face in his hands and he was kissing her. His mouth was insistent and so warm she couldn't help but melt into it. Too soon, he pulled away, wrapping his arms around her and holding her tightly against him. "No. No," he said, his voice rough and shaky. "You just surprised me. I never expected you to want . . . But if that really is . . . I . . . thank you." He withdrew and stared deep into her eyes, and it felt as if he could see her soul. "Thank you," he repeated in a whisper and dipped down to kiss her once more. This time lighter, softer.

"So, you like it? I mean, it's okay?" Clary asked as they broke apart, still close enough to breathe each other's breath.

"It's . . . I . . ." He hugged her again. "I don't even have words. Shit. Yes, okay? Yes. It's more than God-damn okay."

"You know," she said, into his shoulder. "Most of the time I never thought of him with a name at all. It was just 'the baby' or 'our son' or 'he,' but on those times I did associate him with a name, it was always 'Little Jace.'" She shrugged. "And now it's just who he is to me. I can't really imagine him with another name."

"LJ," Jace said.

Clary smiled and nodded. "LJ."

Jace turned his face into her neck, his lips and breath whispering lightly against her skin. Clary shivered as his hands skirted up her back, not stopping until they cradled her head gently, so gently, and he continued to kiss every inch of bared skin on her neck and face. She closed her eyes, her hands fisting into the material of his jacket. And she knew there would never be another boy who could make her feel this way, like she was floating, always floating. She felt his lips curve into a smile against her jaw, as if he knew exactly the way he made her feel. Maybe he did.

"I wish I didn't have to take you home," he murmured, his voice vibrating throughout her whole body. "I wish I could keep you, so I could kiss every inch of you all the time."

"Me too. Unfortunately, my dad will probably come hunt me down if I'm not back soon. I didn't exactly tell him I was leaving earlier."

Jace pulled back and met her gaze, his fingers swiping long, red curls away from her face. "You know, we could do whatever we wanted without worrying about him, if you'd just reconsider."

Clary frowned. "Reconsider what?"

Jace grinned and leaned in to kiss her once more, speaking against her lips. "That question you said I couldn't ask."

"Jace . . ."

"I know. I won't. I promised I wouldn't. But . . ."

Clary pushed against him and sat up slightly. "You don't want that anyway."

"How do you know what I want?"

"You're eighteen, just about to graduate high school, go to college, play football for a university. You have your whole life just waiting to begin. Do you really want to be tied down that much right now?"

He looked up at her from under thick lashes. "I want you. I don't really care about any of that other shit." He shook his head and looked down. "But I know you don't want that—"

"No," Clary said. "That's not it. I just . . . You know what it is. Not now. Not . . . like this." She gestured to her protruding stomach and lowered her voice to almost a whisper. "And not when it feels like a way out. A way out from under my father's crap. I . . . I want it to be for the right reasons. Because we love each other. Because we need to be together. Nothing else."

"It would be that way now. At least for me."

"Jace . . ."

"I know," he said, his voice laced in defeat. "I know. I'm sorry." He sat back in his seat and ran a hand through his hair, his eyes trained on the road in front of him.

Clary could tell she'd hurt his feelings, but she didn't know how else to go about expressing herself about this. She wanted him, wanted him forever. But not yet, just . . . not yet.

It seemed like an eternity before Jace spoke again. "I should get you home."

"Jace," Clary whispered.

He looked over at her and offered a small smile.

"It's okay, baby. I get it. I do. I shouldn't have said anything. It's just . . ." His words trailed off and he shook his head. "Nothing. We should go."

"No. What?"

Jace's cheeks puffed out and he exhaled slowly. "It's just . . . what about after?"

"After what?"

"After he comes. What then? We haven't even talked about what's going to happen then." His voice grew quiet. "I don't want to be a weekend dad. I don't want to just show up to take him to the park or bounce him on my knee for an hour or two. I want to be there all the time. I don't want to miss out on his life." He paused. "I don't want to miss out on you. And if . . . if we're not . . . if you still live with your dad . . . I'm not even sure he'll allow me any time with either of you."

Clary swallowed hard. "He's our son, and I love you. My dad won't have a say."

Jace met her gaze, his eyes tired and sad. "But you're his daughter. And as long as you're underage, legally, he can keep you away from me."

"That's not going to happen."

"It already _is_ happening. You just moved back in with him today and you're already sneaking out. What do you think he's going to say about that?"

Clary opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out, because he was right. The only reason they'd been able to be so free together was because she'd lived with the Lightwoods. Everything was going to change now that her father had his way, now that she lived back under his watchful eye.

"Jace . . ." she started, but couldn't continue, because there was nothing she could say.

"Time to go," he said quietly. And then he turned back to the road, started the car, and pulled out onto the empty street.

Clary's eyes stung as she turned away and watched the white-covered world pass by in a blur outside the car. Her throat tightened and she blinked to hold back the tears. She didn't know why she didn't want to consider the proposal Jace had given her. It wasn't that she didn't want to be with him, wake up next to him, raise her son with him. It was just . . . she knew what it would look like to those on the outside. As much as she hated the things her father had said to her that night at the hospital, one thing he'd spouted was exactly right: people talked, people judged, and people were cruel. She would now forever be "that girl who got knocked up when she was fifteen," but she could avoid being "that girl who got knocked up at fifteen _and_ got married in high school." Clary knew how people talked about girls like that, as if they'd done it on purpose to trap a guy or to escape overbearing parents, and she didn't want to be remembered as any of those things. She wanted to be the girl who came through it stronger and better than she'd been before. And to do that, she had to do it this way. She just did.

Explaining that to Jace, however, was easier said than done. Peeking back over at him, she saw the crease between his brows and the set clench of his jaw. He wasn't angry—his knuckles were pink and normal as he gripped the steering wheel—but he was hurt. All he wanted was her, to take care of her and their son, to protect them. And all she seemed to want was to protect herself. Even she could see how he might think that, and he would be right. She knew it was selfish; her reasons were selfish. She _knew_ it, but she couldn't change how she felt. This was something she had to do. She just wished the cost wasn't hurting him.

Slowly, she reached across the space between them and traced her finger over his knuckles, feeling him loosen and hearing him exhale. His hand fell free from the steering wheel and Clary placed hers inside, entwining their fingers and holding on tight. His palm was warm and slightly rough and so familiar it was like her own. Jace didn't look over at her, but he squeezed gently. Her gesture was an apology, and his was acceptance. And it was all they needed from each other. No words. No long speeches and declarations. Just this. Just a touch in the dark.

Several minutes later, the car pulled to a stop, and Clary had gathered herself together, drawing in a breath to ready herself for the block long walk in the cold to her front door, when she realized the block had shrunk to a few feet. Her eyes shifted and fell to the recognizable façade of her house. Shock immobilized her, and she barely had time to open her mouth before Jace was out of the car and opening her door for her.

Cold air washed over her and snapped her out of her surprise long enough to stare up at him. He stood before her, his hand out to help her to her feet, but she stayed put.

"Wh—what are you doing?" she asked, her words materializing as puffs of white in the air.

"I'm being a gentleman and walking my girl to her door."

Clary shook her head and shrank further back into the car, her heart pounding. "You can't, Jace. You know you can't." She glanced up at the house and spied the dull glow coming from the living room window. "He's here. He'll—"

Jace sighed and squatted next to her door. His eyes were sad as he peered up at her. "I'm not afraid of your dad, Clary. And I'm done acting like I am. If anything is ever going to change, it needs to start now."

"But—"

His finger covered her mouth. "Stop," he said. "He can come out cursing and yelling at me. He can call the damn cops, if he wants. But I'm not about to let my pregnant girlfriend walk alone down a dark, ice-covered street just to make him happy. I will gladly bare my ass for him to kiss if he has a problem with that." He held out his hand once more. "Now, come on."

Hesitantly, Clary reached out and allowed him to pull her from the car. Once she was outside, Jace wrapped his arm protectively around her, shut the door, and led her up the sidewalk toward her house. Snow crunched beneath their feet as they made their way up the steps. Neither of them spoke; neither of them had to. They knew what this was, knew what it meant.

When they reached the door, Clary pulled Jace to a stop. His brows furrowed in confusion.

"Someday I'll say yes," Clary said, hoping against hope he'd know exactly what she meant. His answering smile said he did.

"I know," he said, bending down to kiss her. It was soft, chaste, but meant more than anything more could have.

Clary reached up and touched his face, her thumb sliding over the rough stubble on his cheek. She wanted to kiss him again, to pull him into her, to keep his mouth on hers all night long, but knew if she did she would never let him go, and she had to let him go. She knew her traitorous eyes begged him to stay, but her mouth . . . her mouth bid him, "Goodnight."

"Goodnight, baby," he whispered into the minute space between them.

Clary closed her eyes, reveling in the sound of his voice, the affection in his words, the warmth of his breath against her skin. And, not for the first time, she wondered why all that other stuff had to matter and she didn't just say yes now. "You need to go," she said. "Before I beg you to take me back with you."

Jace didn't reply as he touched his lips to her cheek, lingering just long enough to burn her. And then he was gone. His warmth, his comfort, his everything, all of it gone. Clary kept her eyes closed as he walked away, not wanting to watch him leave. She heard as he climbed into his car and turned over the engine, and listened intently to his tires crunching along the snow-covered pavement. When she finally opened them, she was alone in the dark, her street empty, and her heart aching.

She ran her hands up over her arms and turned toward the door, holding her breath as she twisted the knob and pushed it open. Steeling herself against her father's wrath, she stepped over the threshold and into the house. Surprisingly, she was met by nothing but silence. Eerie, full silence. Her gaze drifted over the room and she realized it was empty. Frowning, she moved further into the house, noting the cleanliness of the kitchen, save for the displaced table, knocked over chair, and the shattered tumbler near the foot of the table. Dark smears glinted from the edges of the glass and black drops trailed from it to the sink.

Clary's breath hitched and she backed out of the room. The heaviness in the house descended upon her once more. An uncomfortable shiver worked its way through her. As quickly as her body would allow, she climbed the stairs and called out, "Dad?"

But there was no answer. She checked his room, the bathroom, his office, but he was nowhere to be found. Lifting her hands to her head, she spun around, her mind going over and over the possibilities. Where was her dad? Was he hurt? Was someone else? Had he gone to the hospital? And that was when she spied the sliver of light coming out from under her door.

Clary's chest tightened, and she lunged for the knob. Throwing it open, she froze at the sight before her. On the bed, sat her mother, and behind her stood her brother Jonathan.

She blinked in disbelief.

Her mother stood slowly, smoothing her hands over her jeans, as her dark, auburn hair fell over her shoulder. "Hello, sweetheart."

Clary's eyes flickered from her mother to Jonathan, confusion clouding her brain. "Mom? Jonathan? What . . .?"

Her mother stepped forward, reaching for Clary, taking her hands before Clary had the chance to pull away. "We'll explain everything," her mother said. "But right now we have to go."

"Go? Go where?" Clary's gaze moved to her brother once more, and it was then she noticed his swollen cheek and split lip. "Jonathan? What's going on? Where's dad? What's—"

Jonathan opened his mouth to speak, but their mother cut him off.

"I promise we'll tell you everything you want to know, sweetheart. But we don't have much time now. We need to leave."

Clary started to protest once more, but her voice cut off when she saw the large bags in Jonathan's hands. They were her bags. And then she noticed her open closet doors, the empty hangers swaying in the dark. Her eyes widened and she looked back at her mom. Her face was calm, composed. "Mom?"

Her mother moved closer and took Clary's face in her hands. Clary stiffened, but, at the same time, deflated. It had been so long since her mother had touched her like that, and no matter how mad she was, she had missed the feeling of being mothered. "I know you're angry with me, and I expect it to take a long while before you trust me again. I've done so many things wrong, was selfish when I should have been selfless, let go when I should have held on tight. And I don't expect you to forgive that anytime soon. When you were staying with the Lightwoods, it gave me time to figure some things out. But now . . . Now I can't in good conscience leave you here any longer. Not like this, and not with him."

"I—I don't understand . . . What are you doing here?"

"We're here for you, sweetheart. We're leaving, and you're coming with us."

* * *

><p><em>Yep. A cliffy. I know, and I'm SO SORRY! But, seriously, what's going on with Jocelyn? Valentine? What happened to Jonathan's face?<em>

_Guess we'll see next time!_

_But don't forget: hot, HOT smexy times! Football stuffs! Stephen feels! BABY NAMING! So much going on here._

_I hope you enjoyed. :) _

_XOXO ~ddpjclaf_


	29. Help Me (part 1)

****The character names of The Mortal Instruments are owned by Cassandra Clare. The original content, ideas and intellectual property of this story are owned by ddpjclaf, 2011. Please do not copy, reproduce, or translate without express written permission.****

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Twenty-Nine "Help Me" ~Part One~<strong>

Hi, everyone! It's been a long time. I don't have excuses, other than this chapter proved to be a royal pain in the butt for me. It is a major transition chapter, which I do not enjoy writing AT ALL. But all my betas/pre-readers really enjoyed it, so hopefully you will too!

Before you read, please remember Clary's age and keep it in the forefront of your mind.

(OMG! I suck! I forgot to add my beta/pre-reader thanks!)

As always, a very special thanks to my awesome betas lightlacedwithbeauty and AmbrosiaCA and my pre-reader ktut. These ladies are amazing at making my words pretty (and grammatically correct!)

More notes at the bottom. Enjoy the read!

_Chapter Songs:_

_**Because of You – Kelly Clarkson_

_**Don't You Worry Child – Swedish House Mafia_

_**Torn – Natalie Imbruglia_

* * *

><p>"Are you going to eat that?" Jonathan asked. His eyes flicked up to meet Clary's in the rearview mirror. Lights slipped intermittently over his features, much as they had Jace's earlier, except Jonathan's face, discolored and slightly swollen on one side, was distressed, almost guilty. The bruising on his cheek and the cut in his lip were darker and more pronounced in the shadows. "I got your favorite."<p>

"Are you going to tell me what happened to your face?" Clary answered, voice colder than she'd intended.

Jonathan's expression fell, and Clary could see the way his Adam's apple bobbed in his throat. She felt a little bad for being such a bitch to him, but being with her mother and knowing that Jonathan was on _her_ side—whatever that was—felt like a betrayal in the worst way. In her irrational mind, Clary wanted Jonathan to be with her on this, to feel the way she felt, to have had to witness the betrayal of being left for . . . whatever it was their mother had left them for. Money? Escape? Prestige? She didn't know. But it didn't matter now anyway. Their mother had left right when Clary needed her most, and Jonathan had already been gone. He hadn't had to feel what that was like, to know that his needs weren't as important. To know _he_ wasn't as important.

"Then no." Clary flicked her fingers against the brown paper sack sitting beside her on the seat and tore her gaze away from her brother's troubled one. The scent of grease and salt wafted up from the bag, and her stomach turned over uncomfortably. "I'm not hungry."

"Sweetheart," her mother said from the passenger seat. "Your stomach was growling loud enough for all of us to hear a few minutes ago. You need to eat. It's not good for you or the baby if you don't."

"Oh, so you care about what's good for me and the baby now?"

The shock from finding her mother and Jonathan in her room had now faded and turned into the simmering anger Clary had held inside for months. Just being in her mother's presence, hearing her speak to Clary as a mother might: slightly scolding, caring, concerned—as if she had the right—was slowly driving Clary mad.

Jocelyn sighed in response and turned to Jonathan. "You should pull over and get some gas. There aren't many stations between here and there once we get on the road."

Clary's pulse quickened. "Where are we going? Where are you taking me?" Her fingers closed around the buckle of the seatbelt, readying herself to bolt if she needed to.

Jocelyn turned around in her seat, her green eyes meeting Clary's. "Not that far." Her gaze darted to Clary's hands. "Please don't run away. That won't help anyone."

"Who are you trying to help right now, Mom? Me? You? I don't get what this is all about. Why the hurry? Why sneak me out of the house? Who said I even wanted your help? And where the hell is Dad?"

Jonathan pulled into the nearest gas station, turned off the engine, and swiveled around to face her. "Clary, would you just listen to her for a—"

"Why should I?" Clary said. She looked from one of them to the next. "Why should I listen to either of you? I've been asking what was going on since you barged into my room, packed up my crap, and hauled me out of the house, but neither of you will answer."

"Come on, like you were even happy being back there? Just a few days ago you called me whining about how you had to leave the Lightwoods' and go back to him. We're just trying to make things better, baby sis."

"Oh, yeah? How?" Clary asked. "How is this making anything better? Stealing me out of the house while Dad's not there? Taking me away? Really, Jonathan, how does that help anything? Do you think he's really going to be okay with that?"

"I don't care, and . . . well, you'll just have to trust us."

Clary threw her head back and laughed, an ironic, mocking sort of laugh. "Right. That's funny." She cut off the laughter and glared at her brother. "Again, why should I? Neither of you have given me any reason to. She," Clary pointed at their mother, "took off to fulfill her life's dream or whatever, only coming back once to spew some garbage about 'planning to come back to get me,' but then running away with her tail between her legs when I told her off about it. Then she didn't even try again after she learned I was knocked up." She gestured to her stomach. "She didn't even really care when I left home and moved in with the Lightwoods—"

"You said you didn't want to come," her mother protested. "I tried to talk to you, but you said no—"

"I'm a child, Mother!" Clary said. "When are you going to stop trying so hard to be my friend and just be my mother? Yeah, of course I didn't want to go, and yeah, I would have fought you on it, probably doing things exactly the way I did them. But at least it would have felt like you cared enough to fight for me."

Clary knew she was contradicting herself, but she didn't care. These were her feelings, as screwed up and confusing as they were. Her mother said nothing; she just stared at Clary, her mouth agape and eyes wide. Clary blinked and turned back to her brother, the anger inside of her gearing up for another go.

"And you," she narrowed her eyes, "you couldn't even be bothered to pick up the stupid phone and call me to see how things were going. _I _had to call you._ I_ had to reach out to you. So tell me now, _big brother_, why should I trust either of you with anything?"

Jonathan narrowed his eyes right back. "Everything just always has to be about you, doesn't it, Clary? _Why didn't you call me? Why didn't you know to read through the lines of what I was saying? Why did you leave after I told you to go? After I pushed you away and said I hated you?_" he mocked. "Nobody else ever has anything going on in their own lives. At least not when you need something from them, is that right?"

Clary didn't answer and crossed her arms over her chest. She knew he was right, but she wasn't going to admit it. She was still pissed, and she wanted to stay that way.

"Right." Jonathan let out a forced laugh. "Of course that's right. It's always everyone else's fault that you're unhappy. That you aren't sitting on your pretty little princess throne having every single one of us at your beck and call. It's everyone else who's selfish."

"I never said you didn't have anything going on or that any of this was your fault."

"Well, good!" Jonathan's voice grew louder, angrier. "Because it certainly isn't my fault you screwed around and got yourself knocked up!"

"Maybe you should take a few science classes in your fancy university, because I didn't get myself knocked up either!" Clary quieted and picked at the hem of her shirt. "I had help."

Jonathan cracked a small smile and bit his lip to try to contain it, before looking away. Clary glanced down and shook her head. This was always the way she and her brother fought as kids. They'd get all riled up over something, scream and shout for a few, then end up cracking up over it in the end. Not to say that that solved anything. Clary was still pissed, and she still felt abandoned by them both, but maybe this release of stress was something they both needed.

"Well, now that you two have gotten the attention of every customer in the lot," their mother gestured to the staring people outside and placed a hand on Jonathan's shoulder. "Just go get some gas and give me a few minutes with your sister."

"But Mom, she's not going to—"

"Jonathan."

He hesitated for a moment, then let out a huff and exited the vehicle with a slam of the door.

Their mother sighed and shook her head. "Such a drama queen."

Clary almost snickered before she caught herself, and then went back to scowling. She didn't want to laugh or smile or even entertain the idea of being amused by or around her mother. That was something she had to earn, and as far as Clary was concerned, she hadn't earned anything yet.

"Sweetheart, I know how you must—"

"Don't say it." Clary held up a hand to ward off her mother's comment. "Don't say you know how I must be feeling or what I must be thinking, because you don't. None of you understand what this is like, so I wish you'd all just stop." She paused. "And stop calling me that."

"Calling you what?"

"You know what. I told you the last time you tried that I don't want you calling me that."

"But . . ." her mother's face contorted, "but I've always called you sweetheart."

Clary swallowed, an inkling of remorse pushing its way up her throat. Stubbornly, she shoved it back down, refusing to feel the least bit guilty for her anger. "Yeah, well, it's a term of endearment, and I don't feel very _endeared_ right now."

She thought back to the look on Jace's face when she'd called him sweetheart, how it had taken his breath away, how it had given him a sense of how much he meant to her in that moment. Hearing her mother call her the same thing did not give Clary any of those things, and even, in a way, cheapened the sentiment in regards to Jace.

"Fair enough," her mother said, and that only made Clary angrier. She wasn't supposed to agree; she was supposed to be an adult. A _mother_.

Clary felt her eyes start to well up, and she bit down hard on the inside of her bottom lip, until she tasted the coppery tinge of blood. She would not cry. She would not be weak. Not here. Not in front of this woman.

Her mother raised her hand to her forehead and rubbed as if she were trying to ease away a headache. "Look, swee—Clary, I'm not trying to make anything more difficult. I'm not trying to weasel my way back into your life as if nothing happened. I know what I did, and I know how it hurt you. I can never apologize enough. I can never explain away my actions. All I want is a chance to make it right. All I want is what's best for you . . . and the baby."

"Why didn't you want that before? Before you knew I was pregnant. When you left me alone in the first place. Why now? I just—" Clary squeezed her eyes shut and fought against the tremble in her voice. "I just don't get why you're coming back _now_."

Her mother reached back and placed her hand on top of Clary's. Clary jerked away and brushed the back of her hand under her eye, in case any tears had managed to escape. They hadn't. Her mother pulled back and settled her hands in her lap. She looked down at them.

"I meant what I said to you in the diner all those months ago. I'd always planned to come back for you. It just—my living arrangements . . . they just weren't conducive to a teenage girl."

"And the ones here were?"

Her mother's stare lifted. "You know I wanted you with me. I told you—"

"You may have _told_ me but you didn't _show_ me." Clary's chest squeezed and her eyes stung. "You left. You walked away just because I told you to. Just because I was angry and told you I didn't want to come with you, that I didn't want you. You gave up without fighting at all. But you're my mom . . . you're my _mom_." Clary's eyes stung worse, her vision blurring as tears congregated along her bottom lid, but, still, she did not let them fall. All the hurt inside of her knotted up, twisting in on itself until it was almost unbearable. She didn't understand; she didn't know if she could ever understand. "That's supposed to mean something. You're supposed to put me first. You're supposed to . . . you're . . . you . . . How could you leave me?" she said. "How could you? I don't even have my baby yet and I could never—" Her voice cut off mid-sentence. She swallowed against her tight throat and started again. "I could never leave him with someone that made me so miserable I had to run away."

Jocelyn wiped at her eyes and reached out once more. Clary didn't have the energy to pull away this time, and when her mother's hands engulfed hers, their warmth and softness brought her back to days long past. Days when her mother would sit behind her on her bed and braid her hair. Days when Clary would come inside, bruised and battered from trying to beat her brother in a bike race, and her mother would cover her knees with Band-Aids and kisses. Days when those same hands tucked her into bed at night, smoothed over her forehead before lips descended in a good-night kiss. Days when those hands meant love and comfort and safety.

Today, they just meant hurt. Betrayal.

"I'm sorry," her mother said, her voice rough and choked. "I'm truly sorry. When I first left, I didn't know you were . . . I didn't know . . ." She shook her head. "I know you don't think that matters, and maybe it really doesn't, but I really thought that . . . I thought . . ." She closed her eyes for a second and let out a slow breath. "I just thought if I were gone that we'd all be happier."

"How could you think that? You're my mom. You're our mom. How could you—"

"Because it's my fault your father is the way he is."

Clary's mouth dropped open, but she did not speak.

Her mother continued. "He wasn't always so angry, so bitter. Yes, his nature is to be competitive and a sore loser. He's always been driven, confident, and prideful. But those things don't necessarily make a person bad." She swallowed. "But I . . . back then when I . . . I shouldn't have gone against his wishes."

"Mom, what are you—"

"I should have just left things well enough alone," her mother continued, without acknowledging Clary had spoken at all. "But I didn't. I pushed and pushed and pushed. I didn't like this thing between him and Michael. I didn't like that I was the cause of it all, and I just wanted it to be better. But, instead, I made it worse. I continued to make it worse, and now we're left with this. All of this. So I just thought . . . I thought if I left, if I just left, without the reminder of me day after day, then maybe he would go back to being the man he once was. The man who'd charmed his way into my heart, the one I agreed to marry and have children with. The one who could care for you and Jonathan the way a father should. But I was wrong. I had no idea how badly I'd damaged him, how deep his rage, jealousy, and hurt cut into him, transformed him." Her gaze rose to Clary's. "I didn't know he'd take it out on you. On your child. I didn't know . . ."

"But he did. He is. And he's taking it out on Jace too."

"I know. I should have done it differently. I should have—"

"Stop," Clary said. She shook her head and bit down on her lower lip to stop it from trembling. "Just stop." All of the feelings swirling inside of her—loss, pain, betrayal, sadness, fear . . . hope, need, yearning, love—tore at her heart, shredding it and pulling each strip in various directions. She placed her hand over her chest and tried to breathe through the tightness squeezing all of the air out of her.

"Clary . . ."

She shook her head once more and reached for the door. "I just . . . I need a minute. Please, just let me have a minute." And without waiting for her mother's reply, Clary pushed open the door and heaved herself out into the cold, night air.

Jonathan's eyes widened in shock when he saw her exit the vehicle. His fingers twitched away from the pump and the flow of gas to the vehicle cut off with a click. "Clary? What are you—"

He went to move toward her, his hand outstretched, but Clary raised her palm to stop him. She couldn't handle him touching her right then. If he touched her, she wouldn't be able to think, and she needed to think. So many thoughts and feelings were building inside of her and none of them made sense. It was as if all she had were tiny pieces of a huge, important puzzle, and the people who were supposed to protect her and provide the answers were the ones withholding the most. There were too many things Jonathan and her mother weren't telling her, too many secrets and lies she had to sift through, and she just couldn't deal with either of them touching her. She wanted answers first.

Lifting her gaze to meet her brother's, Clary's eyes lingering on the bruises along his cheekbone. She needed to know what had happened to him. She needed to know if it had been their father's hand that had caused him damage. "Tell me what happened to your face."

Her brother frowned and shook his head.

"Please." Clary felt herself losing the tenuous hold she had on her emotions. "Please, don't feed me any BS or tell me you'll explain everything later. Give me something now. I need—" Her voice cracked, and she closed her eyes against the growing sting. "I need something now. You just . . . you don't understand. I'm freaking out. I mean . . . it's . . . everything. You and Mom showing up. Your face. The blood . . . I just . . . I can't take this crap right now, okay? So just give me something."

Clary heard Jonathan let out a shaky breath, and she opened her eyes.

"I got into a fight," he said.

Clary studied his expression, trying her hardest to read the truth she suspected in his eyes. But he revealed nothing. His face was stone.

"Was it Dad? Did he do this to you? Is that why you came for me tonight?"

"I thought you said 'give you something,' not everything."

"Come on, Jonathan, don't be a dick. Not right now."

Jonathan looked away from her, narrowing his eyes at something in the distance. A gust of cool air swirled around them, causing Clary to shiver and Jonathan's pale hair to stick up on one side of his head. It made Clary's memory flash back to when they were very young and Jonathan thought a side spike was a cool thing. And even though back then it just made her think he was a dork, now it made her miss that version of him, that version of them, even more.

"Do you think calling me a dick is going to get me to talk?"

"Just tell me what the hell is going on!"

"God, Clary!" Jonathan said, his eyes wide and angry. "Why do you think you're entitled to know everything?"

"Because you just showed up and basically kidnapped me out of my own house, and you won't tell me anything! So, all I can do is assume that Dad hit you. I think I deserve to know if that's what happened."

Jonathan let out an exasperated growl. "Well, that's not what happened, okay?"

"Then what did happen?"

"Can't you just leave it alone? It wasn't Dad."

"No."

"Jesus, you're annoying." He laced his fingers behind his head. "It was nothing. I just . . . I got into it with a teammate."

"A teammate? But . . . the blood—"

"The blood is from when Dad slammed his hand down onto the table, not realizing his glass was still in it, after I told him I'd lost my scholarship and position to a walk on. Okay? Are you happy now?"

A million different words formed on Clary's tongue, but the only thing that came out was a nearly inaudible squeak.

"And before you ask," Jonathan continued, "no, I don't have to tell you what happened. I don't need to explain any of this to you, because _Not. Everything. Is. About. You._"

"Jonathan, I—"

"God, just shut up, Clary, okay? Just shut up for a second and _listen. _None of us have it easy when it comes to Dad. Not you. Not Me. And definitely not Mom. But if you could just get over yourself for five damn seconds . . ." He ran his hand through his hair. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, but Clary could still hear the anger behind it. "If you could just stop and open your eyes, you'd see that everything Mom is saying about wanting to take you with her but not having a place for you is all true. She told me a long time ago. All those times you wouldn't talk to her, all those times you thought she was screwing around on Dad and wouldn't listen when you were told differently, I listened. I heard her."

"Jonathan," Clary lifted her hand to her forehead and squeezed. The effort from holding back her tears had caused a headache to form. "I can't deal with this right now, okay?"

"Well, you need to!" His voice rose again. "I get that you're hurt and that you feel betrayed, but maybe it's time you stop concentrating on yourself and start looking at what's going on around you. Maybe then you'll stop acting like everything everyone does is some kind of slight on you. Maybe you'll realize that some of this shit that you think was the worst thing that could be done was actually done to try and protect you!"

"Well, maybe if you guys were talking to me instead of trying to protect me, I wouldn't need protecting! Did you ever think of that?" The swell inside of Clary was building and building, a tsunami getting ready to crash over her and pull her under. "You know, contrary to whatever you and mom think, and what my age says, I'm capable of rational thought. I'm smart enough and strong enough to make my own decisions. To protect _myself_."

Jonathan leaned into her, stopping only when his face was a couple of inches from her. "Then _act_ like it, Clary." He closed his eyes for a moment and shook his head before looking at her once more. "I'm not trying to be an asshole, but you've got to stop the blame game, all right? Mom messed up. I get it. She gets it. But so did you. So. Did. You. And I think it's time we all just . . . God . . . gave each other a break."

Angry tears stung her eyes once more, and Clary pressed her lips together and averted her gaze, trying to hold them back. Her chest ached and her head hurt so much from fighting her emotions, she knew she wouldn't be able to fight it much longer.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked her brother. "Why are you helping her? Why are you letting her excuses be enough?"

"Because I understand why she did it. I understand why she left."

Clary whipped her head up. "What? How could you—"

"You don't know, Clary," he interrupted, his words soft but pained. "You don't know what it's like to live under his thumb. You may think you do, you may think he's been that way with you, but he hasn't. He's mostly ignored you. Yeah, he's bugged you about your clothes and whatever, but up until recently," he gestured to her stomach, "he never told you how to live your life. He never told you what to do." Jonathan settled his dark eyes on hers. "He never demanded you continue to play through the pain of a busted collarbone. He never hand-picked your school, your future, and told you that he would disown you, take away everything _including_ any chance at _any_ school or future if you didn't bend to his will. He never told you to take any means necessary to rid your sister of her 'problem,' and then told you to get the hell out of his house when you refused." Clary gasped, but Jonathan continued. "He's always just overlooked you. And if this baby were anyone's other than Jace Wayland's, I'm pretty sure he'd have overlooked that too. And you should be grateful he did."

"Is this supposed to make me feel better? Knowing that my father never cared what I did, that I even existed?"

"Yes," Jonathan said. And he made no apologies for his answer. Not in his words. Not in his eyes. "Because if he had . . . well, I hate to think about how much worse your life would have been then."

Clary stepped away from her brother, blinking against the building sting in her eyes. She couldn't process all of this. She couldn't think it through, couldn't grasp what he was saying, what they'd both been saying. It had never been a secret that her father was . . . a different sort of man. He'd never been particularly loving toward her, but he'd never acted outright hateful either—not until she'd done what she'd done. But the more she thought about it, the more she knew it was true. Her father had overlooked her. And the stupid thing was, she couldn't decide which hurt more: the fact that, now that she'd gotten knocked up by his mortal enemy's son, he was acting like maybe some of this was because he cared and not just because it was Jace, or that before now she'd never even amounted to a piece of gum stuck to his shoe.

It should have been an easy decision. She should have been able to sift through the lies to get to the truth, and, in her mind, she knew exactly which truth that was. But in her heart . . . well, her heart didn't want to acknowledge either.

Jonathan reached out for her, his fingers wrapping carefully around her forearm, but Clary flinched and pushed away from him, holding her hands out to ward him off. "I'm sorry, baby sis. I shouldn't have yelled. I shouldn't have gotten angry. I'm just . . . I'm sorry." His eyes filled with remorse and sadness, and Clary shook her head at him.

"I can't right now. I just . . . I can't." Pushing past him, she headed toward the bathrooms near the back of the station.

She heard her brother calling out to her from behind, but she didn't look back, she didn't slow. All she knew was that she could feel it coming. All the hurt, frustration, and anger she'd been pushing back was coming.

Luckily, the one-stall bathroom was unoccupied when she reached it, and she closed herself inside, ignoring the mess of paper towels, toilet paper, and water covering the floor near the toilet. She stepped up to the sink and wrapped her hands around the edge of the Formica counter. Closing her eyes, she took in several deep breaths through her mouth so as to not subject herself to the disgusting aroma permeating the filthy room. When she looked up, her reflection stared back at her from the cracked, grime-covered mirror.

She looked like crap. Like absolute crap.

Her hair was gathered into a messy ponytail, and her eyes were puffy and bloodshot. Not a single ounce of the happiness she'd felt an hour earlier remained. None of the glow from being with Jace was left in her cheeks, none of the sparkle in her eyes. There was nothing but dull, lifeless defeat etched in her features.

Everything Jonathan had said about her was true. She was selfish. She was stubborn. And she hated every last inch of both of those traits. She wished she could scrub herself clean of them, to obliterate how dirty and useless they made her feel. But underneath the innocent looking freckles and cute, little upturned nose were layers and layers of venomous scum, infecting her with poison and shame. No matter how much she wanted it, she doubted she could ever be rid of it fully.

With shaking hands, Clary turned on the water in the sink, waiting a few moments for the cloudy liquid to clear, and splashed some onto her overheated face. Each drop felt like ice piercing her skin, but she continued to scoop handfuls of frigid water to her cheeks.

All she wanted was for it all to go away, for her life to be different than it was. She wished she had a better family: a mother who had stuck around and put the needs of her children first, a father who looked at her with adoring eyes and who'd given her piggyback rides through the park when she was younger, a brother who hadn't fallen victim to their father's whims and threats. She just wanted normal, and normal was what she'd never have.

After a few minutes of dousing her skin, Clary turned off the water and glanced back up at her reflection. Her eyes were still rimmed in red, her irises still dull, and her cheeks pale and lifeless, and she knew that no matter how much scrubbing and splashing she did, she would never be able to remove the evidence of how damaged she really was.

As Clary reached out for a paper towel to dry her cheeks, she felt her phone buzz in her pocket. Fumbling in her pants for a moment, she pulled it out, a strange stabbing pain piercing her chest when she saw his name illuminated on the screen. She took in a breath and held it.

She swiped her finger across the lock screen and held the phone up to her ear. "Hi," she said, swallowing against the tremble in her throat, so he wouldn't hear.

"Hi," Jace said, his breath heavy in her ear. "I'm sorry I didn't call earlier, but I was out running and just got your message. What's up? Do you miss me already, baby?"

That was all it took: the gentle tenor of his voice on the other end of the line, how his words still sounded happy and intact from their afternoon together, and the way he called her "baby," how the word wrapped around her, providing her with all the tenderness and comfort in the world. But it wasn't enough. Or maybe it was just enough.

All of the cracks that had started to form inside of her grew wider, deeper, longer. She could feel herself falling, like Humpty Dumpty from his wall, and she knew that when she hit, she would shatter into a million pieces just like he had. She wanted to hang on, to be as strong as she used to be, but her fingers couldn't grasp the ledge any longer.

And down she came.

With her back against the wall beside the sink, Clary slid to the ground, one hand on the phone and the other in her hair. Her throat clenched so tight she could barely breathe, let alone get out a reply. The tears she'd been holding back spilled over her cheeks in a flood.

"Clary?" Jace's voice, now devoid of the playfulness from moments ago, was urgent and concerned. "What's wrong? Are you okay?"

She shook her head, trying to quell the anger and sadness and confusion spilling from her body long enough to speak, but she couldn't stop it. The only sound she could manage was a quiet gasp.

"You're scaring me, baby. What's going on?"

"Jace . . . I don't wanna . . . Can you just . . ." Clary looked up at the ceiling and blinked against the emotion threatening to drown her. "Can you just talk to me? I can't . . . I need . . . I need you to just talk to me." A small whine came involuntarily from her throat and she swallowed against it. "Please. Please, just talk to me."

And after a moment, after he paused, seemingly uncertain after her plea, after she assured him she wasn't hurt and wasn't in some kind of trouble, he did. He talked. He didn't ask any more questions or demand she speak in return, he just talked. And as he did, Clary closed her eyes and let it all consume her as she listened, not to his words or to the nonsense stories he was telling, but to his voice, to the lifts and dips and lulls that cocooned her. She could feel it all around: the warmth that wrapped her up and acted as a numbing salve to her pain, the care that picked up the pieces that had broken off and fit them back inside of her. Love emanated so strongly from this just-as-thoroughly-broken man-boy through the speaker of the phone that it lifted Clary's shattered humpty dumpty soul, still cracked and bleeding, but whole once more, and carefully set it back up on the wall.

.o.O.o.

"Jesus Christ, Sebastian, what the hell did you put on this?" Jace grunted with exertion as he pushed up on the bar, the metal cutting into his skin as the weight bench creaked beneath him.

"Quit whining, Sunshine, and give me three more sets. It's down twenty pounds from where you were at the end of the season."

"What did I tell you about calling me that?" Jace lowered the bar to his chest and shoved against it once more, sweat dripping from his brow and down his temple. "Cut that shit out or I'm going to drop you on your ass. I mean it."

Sebastian laughed and leaned over Jace. "No, you don't. You love it and you know it. You also know that threatening me and getting agitated about it is only going to make me want to do it more, Suuuuuuuuuunnnnshiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnnnnne."

"You're an asshole." Jace blew out a breath through his teeth and pushed the weights away from his body again, his arms trembling with exhaustion.

"Hey, takes a bitch to know a bitch." He flashed a wide, white smile, and Jace wanted nothing more in that moment than to smash Sebastian's teeth in. Instead, he settled for unwrapping his middle finger from the bar and letting his friend know exactly what he could do with his "takes a bitch to know a bitch" bullshit.

Frustration washed over Jace as he struggled with the weight Sebastian had added. It wasn't that it was too much; Jace knew it wasn't. He'd seen every plate his friend had added, and Sebastian was right: Jace wasn't lifting as much as he had before. He knew why, but there was no way in hell he was going to tell his friend that the reason he was lifting like a pansy-ass was because he hadn't slept in two nights, and the reason he hadn't slept was because of a girl. He'd never live that shit down. And today—dealing with the fact that he had to meet with Stephen again, and Clary was holed up somewhere with her mother and brother—Jace didn't have the patience to deal with Sebastian's shit.

His arms felt like rubber as the cool bar touched his sternum, and even though he pushed with all of the strength he had, it stayed right there, pressing into his chest and cutting off his breath. Every ounce of blood rushed to his face and he saw stars, before the weight was miraculously lifted and he coughed out a breath.

"Damn it, Sunshine, why don't you just ask for help when you need it?"

Jace sat up and lowered his head between his knees, breathing harshly as black spots tinged his vision. Sebastian's words repeated themselves inside his mind, and Jace almost wanted to laugh at how ironic they were.

Once his head was clear, Jace stood and walked over to where he'd set his water and picked up the bottle, chugging half of it before allowing himself another breath. Every inch of his skin prickled with anxious energy. It annoyed the hell out of him, and all he wanted was a few moments of peace. But nothing helped to calm it anymore, no matter what he did. Not running, not lifting.

Not even sex.

Not even mind-blowingly raw, uninhibited sex.

He couldn't seem to shrug past it or distract himself at all. The sense of foreboding was too strong, too in his face.

To everyone on the outside of things, they'd probably think his feelings were normal, that his nerves were completely understandable, considering he was facing possible jail time. But that wasn't it. He wasn't even thinking about that at all.

The problem was, Jace didn't have a damn idea _what_ it was.

All he knew was there was this feeling, this pestering, nagging feeling. Like he was focused on all the wrong things. Like there was something bigger and tougher and worse looming in front of him, and he just couldn't see it because it was too close. Too obvious.

It was driving him completely batshit crazy that he couldn't figure it out.

Sebastian stood several feet away, eyeing Jace with suspicion and concern, and it pissed Jace off. He didn't want that from anyone. He didn't want anyone feeling sorry for him. There were enough people watching him as if he were about to break, waiting for it—some relishing in the fact, and some fearing it. But what they didn't know was that he'd already broken, time and time again, over and over, until breaking was all he knew to do anymore. And he was extremely good at hiding it.

Jace shook his head. "Don't."

Sebastian raised his brows. "Don't what?"

"You know what." Jace finished the rest of the water and threw the bottle into the trashcan next to the weight bench. "Quit looking at me like you've got me all figured out. You don't."

"Maybe I don't have you all figured out, but if you'd just talk—"

"We aren't chicks. I don't want to talk."

Sebastian lifted a hand and cupped the back of his neck, scratching at the base of his skull. "Fine, but . . . You need to talk to someone."

Jace stopped and stared at his friend. "How do you know what I need?"

"Because it was what I needed."

Jace frowned. "What? When?"

Sebastian continued to scratch at his head. "Look, dude, I don't know what it's like for you, and, honestly, I hope I never find out, but I get what it's like to feel like you have to figure shit out on your own."

Jace looked down at the floor, not wanting to let a single emotion show in his eyes.

"You remember a couple of years ago when Annika went to stay with our grandparents?"

Jace nodded.

"Yeah, well, I lied about that shit. She wasn't with my grandparents."

"Where was she?"

"Glenview," Sebastian said.

"The psychiatric center?"

Sebastian nodded. "She was depressed or something. Cutting herself and not eating and some other shit I don't even want to get into. But . . . my point is . . . I didn't say shit to anyone. Not anyone. And I think I should have, you know? I think I should have talked about it because it almost killed me not to. So, all I'm saying . . ." He met Jace's gaze. "All I'm saying is, if you need to talk . . . if you want to . . . I'm not going to think you're a pussy for it. Okay? I'm not going to think you're a weak-assed baby or some other bullshit. What you're going through? It's some seriously messed up shit and I'm not going to judge you if you need to get out your feelings and shit."

Jace couldn't help but smile. "Do you realize you said 'shit' five times in that little speech?"

"Better than fuck. I'm trying to cut back. You know, to sound more sophisticated and shit for the ladies."

"Yeah? How's that working for you?"

Sebastian flipped Jace off.

Jace shook his head, his smile slowly fading from his lips. He wasn't going to open up, not yet, maybe not ever, but he did appreciate his friend's concern. "I actually really don't want to talk about it. But thanks. I'll remember the offer."

"Good." Sebastian nodded once. "Now let's get back to kicking your ass." He pointed to the punching bag and gloves in the corner.

"You wish you could kick my ass—" The gate buzzer rang, interrupting Jace's response. He frowned and turned toward the doors leading to the rest of the house.

"You expecting someone? Shortcake?"

Jace started toward the front door. "No. I'm supposed to go see her later." He made his way out into the hall, swiping the sweat off from his forehead with the back of his forearm.

When he reached the door, he pressed the call box button. "Hello?"

"Sir," a static-filled voice came through the speaker. "This is Jonah from Tri-County Movers. We're here with your truck."

Jace frowned even deeper and looked back at Sebastian. His friend's brows were raised in surprise. "You moving, dude?"

He shook his head and spoke into the call box once more. "I'm sorry, I think you have the wrong address."

"Isn't this," a rustling noise came through the speaker, then the voice again, "twenty-five, fifteen West Walnut Grove?"

"Yeah."

"And are you Mr. Wayland?"

"Yes, but—"

"Well, we have an order to bring a moving truck to twenty-five, fifteen West Walnut Grove, signed by a Mr. Michael Wayland, to pack up and move several specific rooms: the west study, the master bedroom, the downstairs library, the den, the—"

"Wait," Jace said. "Just wait . . . my father sent you to pack up his stuff? Why would he do that? He's just in Tampa for business. I don't—"

"I'm sorry, sir, I don't know. All I know is that we've been sent to do this. Could you please open the gate so we can do our job?"

"Hold on." Jace stepped away from the speaker and shoved his hand into his hair. He didn't understand what was going on. His father was away on business. Yes, he'd taken more and more trips lately, making it so that he was hardly ever home, but this wasn't so strange for the off-season. His father had always been a career driven man. Always.

"What the hell, dude?" Sebastian's voice broke into Jace's thoughts.

Jace held his hands up. "I don't know. But I'm going to find out." Striding into the kitchen, Jace snatched his phone from the counter and found his father's name on his contact's list. It only took two rings before his father picked up.

"What is it, Jace?"

Jace bit down on his lip to keep himself from saying something rude to his father's annoyed tone. "There are some guys here, claiming you hired them to pack up your stuff."

"Oh, yes. Let them in." His voice was so nonchalant, so flippant, it was as if this didn't mean anything to him. As if it were just as though Jace was telling him the paperboy was there to collect.

"What the hell, Dad?"

"What do you mean, 'What the hell?', Jace?"

"I mean, _what the hell_? You're moving out?"

"I wasn't aware you wanted me to stay."

Jace pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at the screen. After a moment, he placed the receiver back to his head. "_I _wasn't aware you wanted to go."

His father sighed on the other end. "Who are we trying to fool, Jace? This isn't working. I think it's time we went our separate ways."

Jace blinked. "You're breaking up with me? Are you _seriously _breaking up with me?" He gripped his phone hard, the glass and metal digging into his palm. "You can't break up with me, I'm your kid!"

A loud crash sounded behind him, and Jace whirled around, finding Sebastian bent over a broken fruit bowl on the floor. Glass littered the tile, glints of light reflecting off the scattered pieces. Sebastian glanced up and mouthed "Sorry," to Jace, then turned back to the mess in front of him. Heat rushed up Jace's neck and flooded his face. He'd completely forgotten his friend was there, and now Sebastian had heard everything. Now he knew for certain how screwed up Jace's life was, how everyone left him. How he was nothing more than a piece of shit the fathers in his life seemed so intent to throw away.

Distractedly, he turned away when he heard his father's voice on the other end of the line.

"We've already had this discussion. I'm not your father; I never have been. Sure, I married your mother, and sure, I acted the part, but that's all it was: a part. I tried to live up to it; I tried to do right by you and your mom but we both know I'm not cut out for this. I'm not cut out to be anyone's father."

Jace's heart beat harder in his chest. "But . . . you're all I have left."

And then Jace was a little pale-headed kid again, his face turned up to the man he called his father, asking him, begging him, to come play. Begging him to love him. Just a little bit. Just for a little while. And just like then, when his father glanced down at him, his eyes so void, so empty, his father answered:

"I need to go, Jace."

"But . . . Dad—"

"Goodbye, son."

"Dad—"

Jace physically jerked when all he met was silence, and then his phone beeped in his ear, telling him the call had ended. He closed his eyes and squeezed his phone even harder. His chest was tight and growing tighter by the second.

"So . . ." Sebastian said, his voice quiet and unsure.

Jace didn't bother to turn around. He knew if he did, not only would Sebastian have heard that mortifying conversation but also would have seen how red Jace's face had become. "Sorry you had to hear that." His voice cracked and he cleared his throat. "Listen, uh . . . you don't have to hang out here. I'm not . . ." Jace drew in a breath and let it out slowly, willing the clenching in his chest to loosen. "I'm not really in the mood to work out anymore."

Without looking in his friend's direction, Jace started for the stairs. The anxious energy that had been there before magnified. There was a buzz radiating through him that did not bode well for anyone or anything that crossed his path, and he did not want that thing to be his best friend.

"Well, do you still feel like hitting some shit?"

Jace froze on the bottom step and turned back to Sebastian. "What?"

Sebastian shifted from one foot to the other, his discomfort evident in the stiff way he held himself. This was just as hard for him as it was for Jace. Guys didn't do this kind of thing. They didn't comfort each other. Yet, it seemed like that was exactly what Sebastian was trying to do, in his own way. Jace didn't know whether to tell him to get the hell out or to let him continue to try. There was no entry for this situation in the _Guide To Being A Man _book.

"It's just . . . I don't really know what happened there—I mean, I can guess from the part I heard, but . . . I'm assuming you still don't want to talk, because we're guys and guys don't really talk about feelings and shit. But, I mean, we can if you want . . ."

"Sebastian." Jace sighed and rubbed his head, an ache in his temple making him want to close his eyes. "I don't really want—"

"Yeah. Yeah, I know," Sebastian said. "I just thought . . . if it were me . . . I mean, I think maybe I'd want to hit some shit, you know? I'm not even pissed off at anyone and I still kind of want to hit some shit."

As bad as Jace felt in that moment, he couldn't help the way the corners of his mouth curled upward. "Hit some shit?"

"Yeah, you know." Sebastian shrugged, but his eyes stayed on the floor in front of him. "Shit hitting relieves stress and whatever."

Jace smiled wider. "Yeah, all right. Hitting shit sounds good."

At that, Sebastian glanced up, his eyes narrowing. "You making fun of my shit hitting therapy, asshole?"

Jace couldn't hold back his laugh any longer. "Of course not. Hitting shit is totally the shit."

Sebastian smiled in return. "You're a serious douche. I'm trying to be all sensitive and shit, and you're laughing."

Jace cracked up even harder and came back down the stairs. "Thanks, man."

Sebastian shrugged. "Don't mention it." He paused. "You know, I meant it when I said we could talk—"

"Yeah, that's enough now," Jace said, as he pushed past Sebastian and moved toward the door leading into the gym.

"Oh, thank God," Sebastian said, the relief evident in his voice. "But . . . what about the movers?"

Jace stopped and glanced over his shoulder toward the door. A cold shiver of insolence moved over him. This was his house now, had technically always been his house, but he'd be damned if he let his father or his hired help have the run of it now. Michael wanted nothing to do with him? Fine, he didn't have to. But if he couldn't even be a man about it, he wasn't getting any of his stuff either.

"If Michael wants any of his shit, he can come here and ask me for it himself."

.o.O.o.

Clary was going insane. It had only been twelve hours since her mother and brother had stolen her away, and already she needed a break. From them. From this place. From everything.

Ever since they'd arrived, her mother had been following her around like a puppy, worrying over every one of Clary's groans and winces. It would have been bad enough had Clary not still been untrusting of her mother's actions, but with that, it was almost too much to bear, and it was taking all of Clary's strength not to scream at her again. Jonathan, well, he'd always been a little on the moody side, but this was ridiculous. Neither Clary nor their mother could even talk to him without pretty much getting their heads bitten off. Everyone was uncomfortable and on edge, and Clary didn't see it getting better any time soon.

Stepping out onto the front porch, she lifted her face to peer up at the thick gray clouds that hid the morning sun. She closed her eyes and tried to find her happy place: Jace's bed the day before, his voice on the phone as she sat huddled on the floor of a dirty gas station bathroom and again later that night when she'd arrived here. It worked somewhat, but not enough to loosen the ever-present knot in her stomach.

Opening her eyes, Clary crossed to the front of the porch and placed her hands on the railing, careful not to slide them across it in order to avoid the rough, protruding slivers of wood and peeling paint from becoming stuck in her flesh. After she made sure her grip wouldn't slip, she leaned into the rail, groaning when the shift took some of the weight off from her back and feet. Her body ached everywhere. Some of the pain, Clary knew, was from the tension and worry she'd harbored all night long, but most of it was her normal, everyday pregnancy stuff, her muscles and bones still refusing to acclimate to carrying the baby's extra weight. She reached back and pressed one of her fists into a particularly sore spot in her lower back and glanced back out at the yard as she rubbed small circles into her spine. Other than the movement of brown, dried up leaves and tufts of dead grass in the wind, everything was silent and still.

Everything but Clary's mind. There was nothing silent about the storm raging in there.

A loud, slow creak drew Clary's attention to the other end of the porch. Her eyes settled on an old wooden swing that hung from rusted chains attached to hooks in the overhanging roof. It moved gently in the breeze, the creak repeating every time it came forward. Moving carefully across the worn floorboards, Clary stopped in front of it, and then sat slowly. The swing groaned under her weight.

She bit her lip as the now familiar feeling of shame crept up into her cheeks. Deep down, she knew it was mostly because the swing was old and unused, but the inconveniently self-conscious part of her was reminded once again about how much heavier she was now than she had been six months ago. Fifteen pounds, to be exact. The heaviest she'd been in her entire life. She was trying very hard not to dwell on her looks or the changes to her body anymore, but what could she say? Old habits.

Rolling her eyes at herself, she fanned a hand in front of her face as a flash of heat consumed her. Apparently, hot flashes were not just for old ladies anymore. A chilly breeze brushed through the slats of the covered porch and hit her sweaty flesh. Clary sighed in relief and laid her head against the back of the seat as beads of sweat rolled down her temple.

God, being pregnant was really kind of gross. And annoying.

Clary blew out a slow puff of air as the heat started to fade and focused back on the foreign landscape around her.

All her life, Clary had been surrounded by other homes, cars, people. Tree-lined streets, fire hydrants on the corner, neighbors walking their dogs, and her best friend's house just across the road. It was noisy and full of life, of other people. Those were the things she was used to. Not this. Not the barrenness of harvested fields and dirt.

Lots and lots of dirt.

Of all the things she'd expected to change in her life—her body, her friends, her priorities—this wasn't one of them. She'd never even considered what it would be like to move away from all that was familiar and . . . home.

She thought back to the night before, after she'd first arrived at their destination and had set her eyes upon her new life. It wasn't anything close to what she'd pictured. She'd been sure her mother was going to take her to some sort of apartment or condo in a town or city somewhere. But this was out in the middle of nowhere, with no traffic or neighbors anywhere.

"Well," her mother had said, stepping up next to her and staring up at the seemingly dilapidated house. "What do you think?"

Clary couldn't speak as her gaze traveled over the old farmhouse, with its peeling white paint and huge covered porch on the front. Massive, overgrown oak trees grew out of the ground, their branches spanning the entire yard and creating a canopy that was sure to drown out any sunlight. Broken branches, dead leaves, and exposed roots littered the ground around it, and a rusted silo sat near the back of the property, tucked behind a faded red barn.

"I know it doesn't look like much on the outside, but the inside is really fantastic. I think we can make something out of it. Something good." Her mother paused and her voice dropped. "Just give it a chance, okay? All I'm asking for is a chance."

Clary knew, somehow, that her mother didn't just mean a chance for the house. But she didn't know what to think or how to feel about anything anymore. And she definitely didn't know if she had any chances left in her to give. And so she hadn't said anything. In fact, she didn't say anything to her mother or Jonathan for the rest of the night. She'd just allowed them to direct her inside, give her the grand tour, and then disappeared into "her" room, where she'd promptly shut them out and called Jace back to give him the skinny on everything.

She'd expected him to be upset that she'd gone, that he'd agree with her about how stupid this "bullshit" was, and then he'd promise to come and get her. But, to her surprise, he hadn't reacted that way at all.

"I think this could be good, Clary," Jace had said. "I'm actually kind of relieved."

"What? Why?" Clary said, sitting up against the headboard of her new bed. The room smelled of damp wood and cleanser and looked like something out of Little House on the Prairie with its exposed wood, antique furniture, and yellowed curtains. "You're glad I left town?"

"No, that's not what I meant. I just . . ." Jace trailed off, his voice lowering with a sigh. "I'm just glad you're not there with him anymore. It killed me having to drop you off there last night. I know he's your father, but I don't trust him with you."

"I don't trust her any more than him."

"She's got to be the better option, baby."

"But I don't want to be with her." Clary closed her eyes. "I want to go back to this afternoon, when we were together. When I felt . . . happy. Safe. When everything was good and like . . . like it could all be okay. Now it all feels bad again. I just want it to be good."

"I know. You don't know how badly I want that too. But . . . we can't have that right now. If we could, I would do anything to give it to you." He paused. "But maybe give it a chance, okay? Give her a chance."

"Why should I? She left me, Jace. She left me all alone. I can't just . . ."

"Yes, you can. You _can,_" he said. "Yeah, she messed shit up, but she came back. She came back for you, and now she wants to do right by you. Not everyone gets that, and you shouldn't ignore the possibility of getting your family back just because you're pissed off. I get it, I do . . . But if I had the chance to do that . . . to go back in time and make my mom happy and grow up with my real dad wanting me . . . I would take it."

"You would?"

"Yeah, I would."

"What if your real dad decides he wants you now?" Clary lay down and snuggled into her blankets, her head hurting with all the thoughts circling through it. "Would you take that now?"

Jace was silent for a few moments. "I don't know. But I think about it all the time. What it would have been like to know him all my life. What it would be like if I decided to let him know me now. But I still just . . . don't know."

A lump formed in Clary's throat and she tried to swallow past it. Their situations were not the same—similar, but not the same. She was being stupid, stubborn, and selfish, whereas he was dealing with a man he'd never even known, with feelings she couldn't possibly even touch; she knew that. But she couldn't help how she felt any more than he could, couldn't stop her soul from remembering all the hurt and disappointment she'd felt from her mother over the past several months. She wanted it all to just go away. Her mom, her feelings, this choice. All of it.

"I wish you were here," she said. "I miss you. Which is stupid, since I just saw you a couple of hours ago, but I still miss you."

Jace's voice was quiet when he replied, "I can be there in thirty minutes if you need me to. Just say the word."

She almost said it. She almost caved and asked him to come now, because just the thought of his arms around her, of his legs tangled with hers, of his breath against her neck, made her feel safer and steadier than anything else. With him she had never been stronger. There was something about them together that made them invincible, as if it didn't matter what anyone threw at them, they could overcome it. But apart . . . Clary didn't know if she was strong enough, if she had enough guts to forgive and forget. Having Jace there, holding his hand, may have given her just what she needed to entertain the possibility, to look her mother in the eye and open herself up. But then she remembered about Jace's meeting with Stephen the next day, and she couldn't ask him. She couldn't put her selfish needs above his. "No. I'll be okay. I just need to get over myself," she said, wondering if she was telling him a lie. "You have a big day tomorrow. You need your rest."

"I don't need anything but you."

Clary fought hard against the tremble in her voice. "Goodnight, Jace."

"Goodnight, baby."

Clary leaned back in the swing and let Jace's words ruminate in her mind once more. Was this a second chance at having her family back? Would she be stupid and stubborn to waste it? Or was it just another way for karma to screw with her?

Her emotions concerning her mother and brother were torn. On one hand, she wanted the relationships she'd had with them back, but on the other, she didn't trust either of them to be there when she needed them. She was still too angry, too hurt. Sometimes she wondered if those feelings would ever pass, or if she even wanted them to. There was power in anger, in hurt. To give that up, to let her family back in, was relinquishing the tiny hold she had left over her life. And because of that, she wasn't willing to let that go. At least she hadn't been.

Clary didn't know how long she'd sat there, letting the cool breeze wash over her and her thoughts tumble around and around inside her head, before she heard the door to the house open. Glancing over, she watched as her mother stepped out onto the porch, her red hair whipping around her face in the wind, a concerned expression transforming her features.

A pang tightened in Clary's throat.

It always struck her so hard, the first few moments she caught sight of her mother. It was like seeing an older, wiser ghost of herself, standing there in front of her. A ghost she couldn't speak to or touch, because for so long the ghost had been nothing more than an apparition made from her own mind.

Clary wanted so badly for her mother to be more than that, more than just a whisper of hope in the dark. But she couldn't trust that she was; she couldn't trust that she'd stay.

After a few moments, Clary's mother turned, and when she saw Clary, the concern was replaced with relief. The lines around her eyes smoothed, and her mouth curved into a small smile.

It hurt to even look at her.

"There you are," she said, closing the door behind her and wrapping her arms around her waist, a shiver making her tremble in the chill. "I was worried when I couldn't find you."

Clary huffed and glanced back out at the field. The wind had picked up and was now carrying swirls of dirt and leftover snow through the air. "Where else would I go? It's not like I'm not practically your prisoner here."

Apparently, bitterness won again.

Her mother sighed and sat down beside her. "Are you cold? You have to be cold. I brought a blanket, just in case." In her hand she held a quilt similar to the one on Clary's bed, but instead of the blues and purples, this was green and yellow.

"No. I'm hot."

"Ah. So you've hit the hot flashes stage. I remember that." Her mother laughed. "I remember this one time when I was pregnant for Jonathan—" She cut off when she saw Clary's look. Clearing her throat, she turned to watch what Clary was watching. "I know it doesn't seem like much, but I thought it would be nice for you to get away from . . . everything."

"Who said I wanted to get away?"

Clary fought not to wince at her own words. She knew how they sounded and how they felt as they left her throat, like a set of razor blades against her flesh. But she couldn't seem to stop herself. It was as if every time her mother came around, this monstrous bitch rose up inside of her and took over.

"You couldn't have been happy, living there under those circumstances. It . . . it wasn't good for you or the baby."

"And this is?" Clary finally turned and met her mother's gaze. Green, and so like her own. "Is being here with you any better?" She rose from the bench and walked over to the railing, placing her hands on top and leaning into it.

A few moments later, the swing creaked, and her mother moved up beside her. "I'd like it to be. I'd really like it to be." She reached over and brushed an errant strand of Clary's hair away from her face and tucked it behind her ear. Clary didn't move to stop her. As much as she wanted to remain strong and stubborn, there was a part of her that would always crave her mother's touch. "I want to make it up to you. I want to at least try. Would you please let me try?"

Clary looked up into her mother's eyes and saw the pleading there. She opened her mouth to answer, to deny her, but gasped instead when the baby leveled a sharp kick to the bottom of her ribs. Her hand flew up and pressed against the spot, her breaths coming in short pants as she tried to breathe through the pain.

"Clary?" her mother said, alarm lacing her tone. "Are you all right?"

She nodded and tipped her head back, closing her eyes and continuing to breathe. "He likes to kick this one spot."

Her mother was silent for a moment, and Clary opened her lids to look at her. A deep crease cut through the skin between her eyes. "Could I . . . could I show you something?"

Clary frowned, and her body tensed. "Like what?"

"Just something that might help."

Clary swallowed her discomfort and nodded reluctantly. "Okay."

Her mother moved toward her slowly, her arm outstretched and tentative, as if Clary were a scared cat. "I need to touch you, okay?"

Clary nodded again, and then her mother was behind her, her hands on Clary's stomach, one at the bottom and one over Clary's own on the top. Clary's entire body locked up, but her mother ignored it.

"Spread your legs a little and rock."

Clary turned her head and frowned. "What?"

"Stand with your legs a little apart. About a foot. And then sway side-to-side slowly."

Clary stared at her mother for a moment as if she had two heads, then shook her head in disbelief. "Okay." She parted her legs and started to sway. Her mother swayed with her. It was uncomfortable, and Clary fought against the instinct to pull away.

As they moved, Clary's mother pressed her fingers into Clary's flesh and kneaded softly. Slowly, one by one, her muscles started to relax, and she leaned back into her mother's body. She was warm and familiar and, for some reason, the realization of that made Clary's throat tighten.

LJ kicked a few more times, but they were less intense and seemed to be a bit further down.

"Your brother liked to lodge his foot up under my ribs when I was about this far along." Her mother's voice was quiet, soothing. "There were times I thought he was trying to break through them. I used to rock and rub just like this, and it always helped."

Clary didn't say anything in return, but she didn't stop letting her mother help her either. As angry as she still was, this was one thing she'd craved: her mother helping her through this stuff, teaching her what it was like to be pregnant and to have a child. To show her what she was supposed to do to be a mother herself. Because, for as crappy as her mother had been in the last several months, before that she'd been the best.

"The rocking helps lull them to sleep, and the massaging encourages them to move. They like to feel you touching them, so they'll seek out your hand, your warmth." She took Clary's hand and moved it down from the top of her stomach and around to the side, using her fingers to push into her flesh. After a few moments, she felt LJ thump against her there. "See?" her mother said, her voice tight and shaky. "He looks for you."

Clary's throat clenched more, and she nodded. "Yeah."

They continued for a few minutes more, no words, no sound passing between them. It was just them and the rocking and kneading and the wind and LJ's softening kicks. And for the first time in a long time, Clary felt that connection to her mother again. The one that had been missing for what seemed like forever. It wasn't whole and it wasn't untainted, but there was a spark of it there.

The ice around Clary's heart started to soften, and she could feel herself wanting it to melt away completely. But the feeling didn't last long enough to accomplish much, as the sound of tire on gravel brought her attention to a car pulling up the driveway. It wasn't a familiar vehicle.

Clary dropped her hands and moved away, her mother's falling to her side. They watched as the car came to a stop, and a blond-headed male stepped out into the wind. For a second, Clary's pulse skipped in excited anticipation, but then steadied when she realized it wasn't the blond her heart wanted. Though he looked a lot like him.

Stephen Herondale started toward the porch, his hands thrust into his pockets and his head down. He looked so much like Jace in that moment, that it almost stole Clary's breath. When he reached the steps, he paused and glanced up at Clary and her mother.

"Stephen?" her mother said, moving toward him. "What are you doing here?"

His eyes flicked from her mother to Clary, and he cleared his throat. "I was wondering if I might have a word with your daughter."

"My . . ." Her mother's eyes darted from his face to Clary's. "Clary?"

"Yes, ma'am. If I may."

Surprise rippled through Clary, and she moved toward the stairs. "Me? Why? Is it Jace? Is something wrong?"

Stephen shook his head. "No. Nothing's wrong, but I . . . Well, it does concern Jace, but not in that way." He looked away, his face contorting into an uncomfortably nervous expression. Just seeing him that way made Clary anxious as well. "I'm sorry. I know I shouldn't be here. I know he wouldn't want me to be here . . ."

Clary's mom glanced over at her, worry evident in the lines of her face.

Clary blinked and moved forward. "What's going on?" she asked, when she stood at the edge of the stairs, looking down at Jace's biological father.

He glanced up, his eyes completely different from his son's but everything else was the same. Even the broken expression he leveled at her. "I know Jace doesn't want me around. I know it. But I . . . I can't just watch from the sidelines while this happens to him. I can't." He drew in a breath and tugged at the unruly strands of his hair. Clary's chest clenched at another similarity between him and his son. "I want . . . no, I need to get him out of this. I need to give him the chance to be the father he wants to be." His eyes darted to Clary's stomach, and her cheeks burned at his perusal. "He deserves that much from me." His gaze met Clary's once more, their blue boring into her green. "But I know how precarious these cases can be. There is so much left up to interpretation and discretion in regards to the judge. I know what he's up against, and I just want to give him the absolute best shot I can."

"What do you mean?" she asked. "And what does talking to me help with that?"

His gaze moved back and forth between her eyes, as if he were looking for something there. "There's something I need you to do."

* * *

><p><em>Now, as you (hopefully) noticed, this is part 1 of the chapter. Yes, you read that right. This monster got SO LONG that I needed to split it up—not only because I absolutely REFUSE to post a 20,000 word chapter, but because I wanted to have mercy on my poor betas. 12,000 words is a lot to beta in one go.<em>

_Now, I'm still working on part 2, but my goal is to have it out to betas next week and to post for y'all to read in a week or two, okay? Sound good? Perhaps this super long/double posting will make up for the length of time between updates. :)_

_Also, as I said before about this being a transition chapter, it is necessary to get these characters, their relationships, and the situations to where I need them for the upcoming S&*#storm. Yes, we're barreling down on the finish line, folks. So strap in, it's going to be a fun ride!_

_Until part 2,_

_XOXO ddpjclaf_

_P.S. As a bonus, to anyone who sends a signed review, I'll send you a snippet of part 2. I don't normally do this, but I do feel bad for the length of time here, so I'm sucking up._


	30. Help Me (part 2)

****The character names of The Mortal Instruments are owned by Cassandra Clare. The original content, ideas and intellectual property of this story are owned by ddpjclaf, 2011. Please do not copy, reproduce, or translate without express written permission.****

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Twenty-nine - "Help Me" ~Part 2~<strong>

_Wow! You guys are awesome. So all I need to do to get you to talk to me is to bribe with sneak peeks, huh? Good to know, good to know. ;) Thank you to all of you who sent your comments. I loved them all and responded to each and every signed review (I hope, but with fanfic acting up last week I could have missed some!)_

_I hope you will find that this was worth waiting the little extra time for. Unlike part 1, I had a great time writing this and love, love, love some of the things that happen here. I hope you will too._

_Thank you to my wonderful betas and pre-readers: lightlacedwithbeauty, AmbrosiaCA, and ktut. They are all wonderful and beautiful and awesome and do so, so much to help me out. I adore them all. _

_Chapter Songs:_

_**Driveway – Great Northern_

_**Give It All – Right the Stars_

_**Belong – Cary Brothers_

_**You Are My Joy – Reindeer Section_

* * *

><p>Jace was early. He glanced down at the glowing green numbers on the radio in his dash.<p>

10:47 A.M.

Blowing out a breath, he looked up at the grimy windows to Nana's diner, watching as the shadows from the breakfast rush moved behind the glass.

Jesus, he was really early.

Jace scratched at the back of his neck and tightened his grip on the steering wheel. The parking lot was full, as usual, and there still seemed to be cars pulling in and looking for a spot.

He shouldn't have been there. God, what the hell was he doing there?

The meeting with Stephen was not supposed to be until noon, yet here he was at 10:47 A.M., staring up at the place like he was lost. Tires crunched through the gravel as several vehicles drove up and down the lanes. Jace didn't have a God-damn clue what he was doing. He hadn't come to eat, he knew that much, as his stomach roiled uncomfortably at the thought of food.

A horn blared behind him, and Jace jumped, his eyes catching sight of the other driver giving him the "are-you-going-to-move-douchebag?" look. Jace cut the engine and the car moved on, probably cursing what an asshole he was, but Jace didn't care. He didn't care about shit at the moment. The only things he could seem to focus on was the question of why the hell he was there so early, and how damn glad he was to be out of his house. It reeked in there. It reeked of abandonment and loss, and Jace was sick and tired of smelling it.

He was sick and tired of being the cause of the stench.

Even after beating the shit out of a punching bag and then sparring with Sebastian for twenty minutes, Jace still felt the anger and hurt coursing through his veins. It was as if it had become a permanent entity, a part of who he now was. And damn it all to hell, he didn't want it to be. He didn't want to be this bitter. This damaged.

Jace curled his hand into a fist and banged it against the wheel a few times. God, he was so sick of this shit. Of thinking like this. Of feeling like this. His whole life his father had hammered into his head how men were not emotional, how they did not show vulnerability, but all Jace seemed to do anymore was _feel_.

Feel angry.

Feel scared.

Feel lonely.

Feel weak.

Jace had never been weak before. He'd never been this pathetic. Deep down, he knew this. But ever since this whole thing started, those were the only things he could be anymore.

Jace's father was an asshole. But that asshole was the only example of a man Jace had ever had. And as a man, Michael had never, ever shown an ounce of fear, of hurt. He was always an immovable rock—something Jace had once thought was a strength.

Now, he didn't know what the hell to think.

Somehow, Jace knew it wasn't quite right, that Michael had never really been right about the shit he'd spouted to him. But how was Jace supposed unlearn the lessons he'd been taught? How could he think any differently? How could Jace be anything other than the man Michael Wayland had raised him to be?

And how could he raise his own son to be any different, when this was all he knew?

The thought struck him so hard, it was like a punch to the stomach.

He didn't want his son to grow up like he had, without a real father, or _with_ a father who made him feel the way Jace had, like he was a disappointment, like he was a burden. But what if that's all Jace could do? What if that was all he could be? Jace felt sick, his stomach knotting up inside of him.

He couldn't do this. How the hell could he do this?

LJ wasn't even there yet, and Jace was already failing him. That feeling, on top of everything else, was almost more than Jace could bear. He could deal with people failing _him_, of disappointing _him_, because, in the end, they could only hurt him as much as he let them. But his son . . . he couldn't stand the thought of being a source of any embarrassment or pain to his son. But how could he be anything else?

He had lost everything: his family, his scholarships, his football career, his reputation. Everything. What kind of example could he be?

Jace lowered his head to the steering wheel and closed his eyes, breathing slowly in and out as his heart pounded against his chest. The hard ridges of the stitching of the wheel pressed uncomfortably into his forehead.

"Stop," he said to himself. "Just stop." He pressed a little harder and pain throbbed above his brow. He was feeling sorry for himself. He'd been feeling sorry for himself for a long time now. "Stop being such an asshole," he scolded. "You're not like him. You won't be like him. You won't be like either of them."

Jace needed to stop the relentless negative thoughts overtaking his mind. None of this would help him. None of this would help any of them. What he needed, what Clary needed, what LJ needed was for Jace to be a man, for him to pull his head out of his ass and act like he was strong enough to take this, even if, inside, he felt as helpless as a child. Even if the pieces of him that used to be confident, used to be strong, were slowly eroding away as this storm continued to rage over him.

He could rise above.

He _would_ rise above.

He had to, because they were counting on him.

Drawing in another steadying breath, Jace lifted his head and peered out at Nana's diner, realizing instantly that he'd been going about this the hard way this whole time. It didn't need to be this tough, and he didn't need to be this alone.

A sense of determination washed over him. This life wasn't just about him anymore. It was about all three of them, and as much as he knew Clary was on his side, he needed to prove to her that he could survive for her. For all of them. He told her he'd fight and, damn it, he was going to fight, not just her father, not just the legal issues looming ahead of him, but himself too.

Without him telling it to, Jace's hand reached out and pushed open the car door. His feet, also working of their own accord, stepped outside onto the gravel lot. His heart pounded in even thuds, and nervousness laced the blood pumping through his veins.

_He should not be there_, he thought to himself. And then, _shut the hell up and just do it._

Somewhere inside of him, some_thing_ inside of him, wanted to be there, needed to be there.

Jace thought back to the last time he'd come, to the way Nana had looked at him, to the way she'd touched him, the things she'd told him. And he knew exactly why he was there.

Moving faster toward the entrance, Jace let himself ponder the revelation. This morning, as his father had told him without remorse how he was no longer interested in Jace's life, Jace had thought he was alone, that he had no one. But that wasn't true.

There was someone here who wanted him in her life, someone who had told him as much and was just waiting for him to say yes.

As Jace's hand curled around the handle to the door, he decided that he wanted more than anything to say yes. He was so tired of being alone, of feeling so utterly and completely solitary. And he knew that the only person he had to blame was himself. He hadn't wanted to let anyone in, to let anyone have the opportunity to leave him again. So when they asked, he pushed them away. Again and again, over and over. But he also knew that the only person that could stop the cycle from repeating itself for the rest of his life was him.

All it would take was this one step.

This one decision.

This one person.

This _one_.

Pulling against the handle, the door whooshed open, bringing with it the cacophony of happy voices and the clanking of silverware against dishes. The scent of apples and cinnamon and grease permeated every single inch, and Jace didn't think he'd ever smelled anything better, anything—besides Clary—that made him feel so . . . at home.

Stepping inside, he let the door close behind him, the little bell over top tinkling above the roar inside, and searched for the familiar gray head. Jace stopped near the center of the entryway as he scanned the room. A sharp pain radiated up his elbow as a busboy came hurtling around a nearby table, his tub piled high with dirty dishes, and ran right into Jace.

"Shit!" the boy said as a tower of plates tumbled to the ground, the sound of shattering glass echoing throughout the space. The roar quieted immediately as every eye turned toward them.

Jace knelt beside the boy as he frantically tried to scoop up the broken shards spread across the tile floor. "Sorry, dude. I shouldn't have been standing there like an asshole. Let me help." He reached out to grab several of the broken pieces, but the boy shook his head.

"No, it's okay. It was my fault. I shouldn't have let it get so high." He glanced up at Jace, and his face paled. "Shit," he whispered to himself.

Jace frowned and started to ask what was wrong, when the boy bolted up with his tub full of dishes and hightailed it back to the kitchen area. Confused, Jace stood and lifted his hand to his hair, scratching nervously at the back of his neck. Was it something he'd said?

The silence in the room had started to retreat, the emptiness slowly filling once again with voices and the irritating sound of metal scraping against glass. Jace turned once more, his gaze sweeping over all the heads bent for conversation and food, when he found her. His eyes stopped on her gray head and their stares locked. Nana's mouth curved into a smile.

Jace returned the gesture, warmth spreading through his chest at the sight of her. It was still there when she looked at him, that feeling of being wanted, of being cared for. He started forward, and she did the same, turning her back to the booth she'd been standing in front of. But when she did, something caught Jace's vision that made him freeze in place. His chest tightened and his heart skipped a few beats.

Nana stood there for a few seconds, staring at Jace with a look of confusion, and then, as if a light bulb had gone off in her mind, her expression changed. Her eyes went cautious, and, if Jace weren't mistaken, a little bit sympathetic. She held his gaze for several moments, the look stern but comforting, before turning away from him and back to the booth. When she did, the entire line of sight to what Jace was sure he'd seen, opened up before him.

Sitting in the booth behind Nana, holding a small kid-sized football in his still slightly-chubby hand, was a boy who, with his mess of curly light blond hair, small, straight nose, and full mouth, looked a hell of a lot like Jace when he was a kid.

Jace could not tear his stare away. He watched, unblinking, as the boy tossed the ball up in the air a few times, catching it each time in his hands, until the sandy-haired woman across from him reached out and took it from him, while shaking her head. The boy's brows pulled down and his lower lip jutted out as he crossed his arms over his chest in a classic pout.

Jace could hear his heart pounding in his ears, could feel the blood as it rushed through his veins. He swallowed, trying to get a grip on himself, when the boy looked up. And it was like, in that moment, that something just clicked inside of Jace. A need he'd never known he'd had. A longing.

Everything in the room disappeared. There were no other people, no more sound, no more smells, it was just him and the boy. A boy Jace had seen in the small-framed photo in Stephen's office.

He knew exactly who this boy was to Stephen. And he knew exactly what that made the boy to him.

.o.O.o.

Hideous faded-yellow roses stared out from the wallpapered walls of the kitchen as Clary tipped her head back and guzzled a glass of water. Each gulp burned colder and colder as it flowed down her throat but did nothing for the heat radiating from her face and neck. The hot flashes were worse than they had been earlier, and she felt like she was boiling alive inside her skin.

Clary swallowed the last drop and lowered the glass, her hands shaking as the bottom clinked against the counter. She felt like crap, not just physically but emotionally too. Her head pounded with pain and all of the thoughts bombarding her from every angle. It was getting to be too much: her parental situation, school, pregnancy, the lawsuit. She couldn't think, let alone sleep. And the last several nights were really starting to catch up to her. If she lay down, she was certain she'd sleep for a week. And God, did she ever want to sleep.

But she couldn't sleep. Not yet. Stephen Herondale was awaiting her answer, her agreement. She already knew what she was going to say, but she just needed a moment to collect herself, to calm the raging heat coursing through her, to rest her mind, even if only for a moment, and ease the relenting ache residing there.

Clary lifted her hand and had just started to rub her forehead when the door to the kitchen swung open and Jonathan entered. The murmured voices of her mother and Stephen, barely discernible before, drifted through from the front room. But Clary heard enough to know they were still in disagreement over letting her do what Stephen had requested.

"She's only sixteen, Stephen. She doesn't need anything more to worry about," her mother said.

"I know that, Jocelyn, but if this goes to trial, she may be the thing that swings the vote in our favor. I know it traditionally wouldn't, but in this case . . ."

"I know. But I just—"

The door swung shut, effectively drowning out the voices again. Clary blinked and shifted her stare toward her brother. Jonathan's brows were drawn together and the corners of his mouth were pulled down into a frown.

"What?" Clary asked, returning his expression.

"You look like hell."

Turning around fully, she leaned up against the lip of the counter and rolled her eyes. "Thanks. Way to make the pregnant chick feel better."

Jonathan shook his head and moved across the room toward her. Clary stiffened as he neared. An instinct she really wished she hadn't developed.

"No. That's not what I meant. You look sick. Are you okay?"

Clary closed her eyes and started to rub her head once more. "I just have a headache, that's all."

"A headache, huh?"

Clary felt the air beside her move, and then the warmth of her brother pressed against her arm. She opened her eyes and stared up at him. His brows were still pulled together, the black of his irises laced with concern.

She nodded. "Yeah. I've had one for a couple of days now. Probably from sleeping like crap."

"Among other things," Jonathan said and glanced toward the door leading to some of those "other things."

Clary shrugged, and the silence between them grew thick and uncomfortable. There were so many things unsaid, so many things she wanted to ask and know and understand, but for the first time, Clary felt like she couldn't talk to her brother. Not like she wanted to. Not like she used to. But she didn't move to leave. Just standing there gave her a sense of closeness she hadn't felt from him in a while, and for the moment it was enough.

After a minute or two, Jonathan cleared his throat and shifted beside her. "So," he said. "Are you gonna do it?"

Clary glanced up at him and frowned. "Do what?"

Jonathan stared down at his feet, his white-blond hair hanging over his forehead and covering his brows. "What he asked you to do."

"Oh," Clary looked away from her brother and stared at the swaying trees outside the sliding glass door across from them. "Of course."

"Of course?"

"Yeah." Clary glanced back and was met once again with dark, worried eyes. "Why wouldn't I? It's just a letter."

"It's just a—Jesus, Clary." Jonathan thrust his hand into his hair and stepped away.

"What?"

"What do you mean 'what'? Did you listen to anything Mr. Herondale said? If you agree to do this, you're opening yourself up to having to go in and testify if there's a trial. The DA is not going to ask you to because your pregnancy is proof enough that he was with you. Why would you want to put yourself through possibly having to sit up there and be ripped apart when you don't have to?"

Clary stared back at her brother, not showing him an ounce of fear or regret, even though she felt it throbbing through her. "Yeah, I do, Jonathan. I do have to."

"No, you—"

Clary held up her hand and saw the moment her brother noticed how it shook. "This is my fault as much as it is his. He's in this situation because of something we did together. Something private that no one should know anything about but us. But things didn't work out that way." She waved her hand in front of her stomach. "Now everyone knows, and everyone has made that one night their business. And everyone is taking it completely out on him."

"Because you were under the age of consent."

"Barely! And he was a minor too."

"Barely!" Jonathan echoed. "And you can't even prove that beyond a shadow of a doubt."

"Maybe not," Clary said. "But neither can they."

Jonathan scrubbed his hands over his face. "I just don't want to see you hurt anymore, okay? I don't want you to have to stand up there in front of a judge and lawyers and media and talk about what you did that night. Do you have any idea what it's like to watch you go through this? To see all the ways it's ruining you? It's not like I hate Jace or anything, but I . . . You're my priority, okay? You're the one I care about. I don't like seeing what this is doing to you. You don't deserve this."

"Neither does he, Jonathan," Clary said, her voice quiet. Her head pounded harder and her throat ached, and she wanted nothing more than to lie down, but she needed her brother to understand. "You know, I could understand if Jace had been, like, thirty, or even twenty-five or something. Or if he'd forced me. But he didn't and he's not. It was completely consensual—even through the drunken haze, I can remember that. And he's young too. Even if he'd been eighteen at the time, it still wouldn't feel fair to me, because none of it was malicious. We weren't thinking we were doing something this wrong." She quieted even further. "And I need him, J. I need him here with me and our son. I just . . . I just need him."

Jonathan reached out and grabbed her, pulling her into him. "I know. Damn it. As much as I hate it, I know."

Clary tucked her face into his neck and fisted the front of his shirt. "I have to do whatever I can. If writing a stupid letter will help, I'll do it. If standing up in front of everyone in town and giving them as many details as possible about the night I lost my virginity will help, I'll do it." Jonathan groaned at that. "I'll do it for him, because he would do it for me. He _is_ doing it for me."

Jonathan sighed and placed a hand against her face as he held her. Clary wrapped her arms around his waist and squeezed. His fingers stalled on her cheek and moved up to her forehead.

"You're hot," he said.

"I know. Stupid old lady hot flashes."

"No." He bent down and placed his lips against her temple. "No, I mean you're hot—like, really hot."

Clary reached up and placed her hand against her forehead. Jonathan was right, she was hot. It was then she really took stock of how exhausted and run down she felt. Her head ached; her body ached. There was even a slight unease in her stomach.

"Oh," she said, as a wave of dizziness washed over her, and she swayed to one side. Jonathan grabbed her by the arm and pulled her upright.

"Jesus, Clary."

Clary clenched her eyes shut. "I really don't feel very good."

"We should go get Mom."

Clary shook her head and tried to pull away. "No. It's just stupid pregnancy stuff. I need to sit down." She tried once more to loosen her brother's grip from her arm in order to cross to the table near the window, but Jonathan held tight.

"Clary, come on," he said. "Let's just go get Mom."

"I don't want her. I'll be fine. I just need to sit—"

"Damn it. Listen." Jonathan took her shoulders and twisted her toward him. "This is not the time for pride, baby sis. You don't know shit about pregnancy or illness or anything, for that matter, but she does." He paused. "She does, and she's willing to help. So let's just go, okay? If you don't want to do it for you, do it for your baby. You really look like hell, and I don't think it's just pregnancy stuff. But what the hell do I know? I wasn't born with a uterus."

Clary rolled her eyes but didn't try to protest. She really was starting to feel like hell, and as much as she still didn't want to give her mother the impression she needed her, she could do it for her son. Despite her anger and stubbornness, she would.

Jonathan wrapped his arm around her shoulders when she nodded her assent and guided her out of the kitchen, into the front room where Stephen and their mother were still talking.

Their mother stood with her arms crossed over her chest and her brows drawn together. Her posture was defiant and protective, whereas Stephen's was pleading. "I understand, Stephen, but she's my little girl," Clary's mother was saying as Clary and Jonathan entered the room.

"I know, Jocelyn, but he's my—"

"Mom?" Jonathan said, and Clary was a little bit miffed he'd interrupted. She wanted to hear Stephen Herondale say it. She wanted to hear him acknowledge Jace with her own ears.

Their mother's head turned toward them, her eyes widening in alarm.

"I think she's sick," Jonathan continued. "She feels really hot."

Their mother dropped her arms and started toward them. "Is it another hot flash?"

Clary shook her head. "I thought so at first, but I'm starting to feel pretty bad. Headache. Scratchy throat. And my back is killing me."

"Okay." Her mother took her from Jonathan and led her over to the couch, fussing with some pillows and a blanket before settling Clary down into the soft cushions. "Jonathan, could you go up to the upstairs bathroom and look for the Tylenol in the small box on the counter?"

As her brother took off toward the stairs, Clary shook her head. "No. I can't take—"

"Shh," her mother said. "Tylenol is just fine during pregnancy. I promise." After she finished tucking Clary in on the couch, her mother stepped back toward the kitchen. "I'm just going to grab a cool compress. Stephen," she glanced over at Jace's father, "I'll support whatever Clary wants to do, but I expect you to only use her if the current witness testimony does not sway things in your favor."

Stephen nodded. "Of course." And then Clary's mother disappeared into the kitchen.

Clary stared over at the man standing just inside the door, watching as he shifted nervously from one foot to the other. She continued to watch and wait, until his blue eyes flicked up to hers. LJ kicked her three times, and she laid her hand against the spot, pressing down just as her mother had shown her.

"I'll do it," she said after a moment.

"I figured you would." Stephen smiled and tipped his head toward her in acknowledgement of what she was doing. "Well, I should probably get going then. He's expecting me in a little over an hour."

Clary nodded and rubbed her stomach some more, inching downward slowly as LJ followed the path of her fingers. She wondered if the throbbing sound she heard in her head was as annoying to LJ as it was to her. "Okay."

Stephen turned and twisted the knob, but there was something more Clary needed to say.

"Mr. Herondale?"

He looked back at her over his shoulder. "Yes, Clary?"

She bit her lip and tried to think of the best way to say what she had to say, but couldn't for the life of her make it sound good. So she just went with it. "Don't screw with him."

Stephen blinked and turned back toward her. "I'm sorry?"

"If you want him," she said, "then don't waste your time tip-toeing around it. Just tell him. Make sure he knows, because he deserves at least that much. But if you don't . . . if you don't want him, then don't screw with him."

Stephen's mouth dropped open as if he were about to say something, but then it closed again, and his brows drew together. Clary watched him, trying to discern what the expression on his face meant.

"Do you?" she asked.

"Do I what?"

"Do you want him?"

Stephen closed his eyes and breathed in and out deeply. On the exhale, he said, "I shouldn't."

"Why not?" Clary asked, tipping her head to the side and peering up at this man who looked so much like the one she loved. She could not get over the similarities, not just in physical appearance, but mannerisms and personality too. "He's amazing."

Stephen opened his eyes, and Clary could see the pain and longing inside them. She recognized it as being the exact same thing she saw in Jace's whenever he talked about his biological family. He was too proud to admit it most of the time, but Clary was sure if this man told him he wanted him, if he even hinted, that Jace would be all in. He'd be ready, so she wanted to make sure that Stephen Herondale understood that, and he didn't make promises he couldn't keep.

"Because I don't deserve him," he said.

"No," Clary said in agreement, and Stephen's face fell at her word. But it was the truth. The absolute, unequivocally hard truth. And then she gave him another. "But he deserves you."

And by the light that flashed in Stephen's eyes, by the way the defeated look on his face turned to one of hope, Clary knew, without any doubt, that he knew she was right.

"Don't hurt him," she said, her gaze locked on his. "Or I'll hurt you. And don't think that just because I'm pregnant that I can't do it, or that I won't. Because I can, and I will."

When he smiled, Clary could have been looking at Jace. Stephen's mouth lifted in the same way: one side higher than the other and just a flash of teeth between full, rosy lips. He, like his son, gave the impression that he was a little bit angel and a little bit devil all at the same time.

"I don't doubt that in the least, Miss Morgenstern."

"Good," she said. "Don't."

Stephen nodded and turned toward the door, but just as his hand grasped the handle, he paused and peered at her over his shoulder. "Thank you, Clary."

She raised a brow. "You don't have to thank me. I'd do anything for him."

"I know you would, but that's not what I was thanking you for."

"Then what?"

Stephen paused and a bit of light went out of his eyes, and in them Clary could see the regret and shame he hid deep inside himself. "For caring about my son enough to want to."

.o.O.o.

From the first time Stephen had accidentally mentioned Samuel, Jace had never really let himself think about the boy in any terms other than "Stephen's other son." He hadn't wanted to think about what that meant or how it made him feel—other than the obvious pissed off. He'd wanted to stay in his bubble of pain and anger and resentment because it was easier than letting himself feel anything that may lead to more pain. So he'd pushed aside the notion of the boy. He'd averted his gaze from the photo in Stephen's office. It was easier to ignore it, to pretend the situation wasn't what it was and the boy wasn't who he was.

But as Jace locked eyes with him, as he watched the boy's widen in some sort of recognition and his mouth part in a toothless smile, Jace could not ignore it any longer. There were too many similarities, too many feelings bubbling up inside of him to push past any longer.

This boy was biologically Jace's brother.

His blood.

Jace swallowed and fought the urge to turn around and walk out the door. He'd come to the realization that he wanted to try to let Nana in, but he had no idea what to do with this. What was he suppose to think? To feel? The kid had to be no older than seven or eight-years-old, and by the way he was looking at Jace and bouncing up and down in his seat, he seemed to know exactly who Jace was.

Jesus. Did he know? Did he really know?

The boy said something to the woman across the booth from him, his pointer finger stretched out in Jace's direction, and stood up on the booth seat. The woman turned and the blood drained from her cheeks, before she glanced up at Nana. Jace watched Nana shake her head and look back at him, her lips forming words Jace couldn't make out.

The longer he stood there the more out of place he felt. Maybe he should have left. Maybe he never should have come in the first place. He didn't belong there with them.

But it didn't matter how many times that thought flitted through his head, he couldn't move. The little boy's stare had him stuck there by some invisible force, like a butterfly pinned to a cork board by only its wings. His body functioned as it always had, but his only means of escape were immobilized. Jace could feel his heart wanting to retreat, his hands scratching roughly at his jean-covered thighs, but his feet were planted right where he'd stopped. Stuck. Immovable. As if they knew something he didn't. As if they had a clue what could possibly happen if they stayed.

Before Jace's feet could relent to the begging in his mind, Nana turned from the booth once more and started toward him. Jace's hands clenched at his sides and his stomach flip-flopped inside. It seemed to take forever for Nana to cross the distance between them, but once she was there, standing before him, it was as if she had always been there.

A soft smile graced her lips, but a sliver of worry dulled her eyes. "Hello, Jace."

Jace's eyes flicked to the booth where the boy and his mother sat, then back to Nana's face. "I'm s-sorry," he stuttered. "I shouldn't have come. I just . . . I wanted . . . I'm sorry. I should go." He started to turn back toward the door, when Nana reached out and grasped his forearm.

"Don't be silly, Jace. You are welcome here anytime. No appointment necessary." The sparkle was back in her eyes, but Jace could not relax. He couldn't keep himself from sneaking looks behind her. When he finally managed to tear his gaze away and focus back on Nana, her expression was soft, understanding. And when she spoke, Jace was sure he'd misheard her. "Would you like to meet him?"

Jace sucked in a breath and took an involuntary step back. "What?"

"Would you like to meet him?"

"I—No, I . . . I shouldn't—"

"Because he'd very much like to meet you."

Jace fought against the panic rising in his throat. "Why?"

Nana grinned and patted Jace's arm before letting go. Jace felt the absence of her touch immediately, as if he'd been starving for some sort of contact, some sort of closeness, and now it was gone, leaving him to flail and stumble alone in his hunger. "It seems he's a bit of a fan—no, excuse me, 'Your biggest, bestest fan.' Or so he says." She smiled again, and Jace was speechless. "Apparently, my grandson has been bringing Samuel to your games since he was a toddler."

Jace didn't know what to do with that information. Stephen had been coming to his games? And he'd been bringing Samuel? Why?

"I don't understand."

"I think you do," Nana answered, but Jace still couldn't verbalize what he was thinking. He had no idea. Nana took pity on him, her face contorting softly. "My grandson is not a bad man, Jace. He made a horrific mistake—one he's acknowledged and suffered with for a long, long time. But that doesn't mean he ever forgot, that he ever stopped claiming you in his heart."

Jace looked over Nana's shoulder once more. Samuel sat, literally, on the edge of his seat, his legs swinging back and forth and clanging against the wooden bottom of the booth, not yet long enough to touch the floor. He still held the small football in his hands, and his eyes were trained on Jace. So excited. So hopeful. Jace didn't deserve that look, didn't belong in the same vicinity as that look.

"Does he," Jace started, his throat closing up on the last word. He closed his eyes, drew in a breath, and then opened them and started again. "Does he know? Who I am? Who I really am?"

Nana gave him a small, sad smile. "No. He doesn't know."

Jace nodded and let his gaze fall to the floor. Something inside of him hurt at the admission. He wasn't sure why. He didn't want this complication, did he? It was easier for the boy not to know who Jace really was, wasn't it?

"Stephen has been very cautious when it comes to you," Nana said. "Of how he acknowledges you."

Jace clenched his jaw, a spark of old anger igniting once more inside of him. "I understand."

"No," Nana said, reaching out for him once more. "No, I don't think you do."

"Sure, I do. He gave me up," Jace said, rejection tingeing the words. "He didn't want me, and he never intended his real son to know about me, about the _other_ child. It's really not that complicated a concept to get. So, I get it."

"No," Nana said quietly. "That wasn't why."

"Then why?" Jace could hear the hurt in his voice, and he wanted nothing more in that moment than to be strong enough to hide it.

Nana rubbed her thumb over his forearm, but the motion did little to soothe him. "He thought maybe that decision should be up to you."

Jace met her gaze, sure the confusion he felt was evident there.

"Stephen is very aware that he gave any right to you away a long time ago, but your rights to him? To Samuel? Those are yours to do with as you please. If you'd like that boy over there to continue thinking you are just his favorite quarterback and nothing more, then that's your decision to make. But if you want more . . ." Her voice softened. "If you want more, then that's yours to choose too."

His to choose.

His choice.

Jace had never been given a choice like this before. In the past, people had just chosen for him, whether or not they would be in his life, whether or not he was allowed in someone else's. His birth father had never been there, had decided early on not to be there, and Jace had no say in that. He hadn't even been given a chance. His mother had chosen her swan song, had chosen to leave him for eternity, and still, Jace had no say. His dad had chosen his grand exit as well. It had never been up to Jace, not a single one of those instances had he even been a consideration. And now that it was, he had no idea how to even go about choosing, didn't even really believe he could. The concept was foreign and scary, and Jace wasn't sure he had the ability to do it.

"Jace?" Nana said, her voice drawing him out of his thoughts. "You don't have to decide today. You don't even have to meet him today. I can tell him something. I can come up with an excuse—"

"No," Jace said, his voice hoarse with indecision and trepidation. But this was not the time to be scared, to be a coward. He was tired of letting his fears and insecurities rule him. Tired of letting them take away his chances to turn things around. This was the time to be strong. He cleared his throat. "No. I'll meet him. I'd . . . I'd like to meet him."

Nana eyed him carefully. "Are you sure? It's okay if you're not."

Jace swallowed and thought about the implications of his words. Was he sure? No, but why the hell not? Without another thought, he nodded. "I'm sure."

"Okay then." She reached into the apron slung around her waist, rummaged for a moment, then pulled her hand out, a black Sharpie marker grasped inside. She held it out to him.

Jace frowned at her hand.

"He's going to want you to sign that ball," she said in explanation.

"Oh," Jace said, reaching out slowly for the marker. "Okay."

Nana gave him an encouraging smile and then turned toward the booth in the back. She nodded at the boy and the woman with him. The boy leapt from his seat, and the woman across from him just managed to catch him as he tried to dart past her. Her gaze met Jace's and her mouth turned up slightly in the corners. It made him uncomfortable, so he looked away.

Slowly, as if time had nearly stopped, they made their way toward the front of the restaurant where Jace and Nana stood.

Jace felt his breath speed and his hands grow damp. Jesus. What the hell was he doing? Heat rushed up his neck and pooled into his cheeks, as his chest tightened. The closer they got, the more Jace's body revolted. He was a mess, inside and out, his mind racing. A million thoughts, good and bad, flew through his head, alternately building him up and tearing him down, telling him this was no big deal, telling him it was the biggest thing he'd ever done.

He couldn't concentrate, couldn't think, couldn't breathe. But before his panic became too far-gone, they were there. Right there. Jace held his breath.

The boy moved from his mother's side to Nana's. He looked up at Jace and there was none of the fear and nervousness that Jace felt present in the boy's eyes. He was all confidence, all unrestrained, giddy joy. It was disconcerting to Jace to see a child like this, especially a child that was looking at him. It didn't seem natural, and Jace couldn't fathom why he looked at him that way.

The boy moved forward and Jace started, involuntarily moving back a step. A slight frown marred the boy's innocent face, and Jace cleared his throat, his uncertain gaze flitting to Nana's. Understanding flashed in her eyes, and she grasped the boy by the shoulders, pulling him back against her.

"Don't be rude now, Samuel. Why don't you introduce yourself before you attack him?" She winked at Jace, and he tried to regulate his breathing.

"Sorry, Nana," the boy said, his voice high, but lower than Jace had expected for a child this young. Slowly, and with deliberation, the boy offered his hand and peered up at Jace from under thick, dark lashes. "Hi. I'm Sam Herondale. I'm very glad to meet you, Jace Wayland." Sam blinked a few times, then looked up at Nana and whispered loudly, "Did I say it right?"

She chuckled. "Yes. You said it perfectly."

Sam grinned and turned back to Jace expectantly.

Jace stared down at the boy, his hands shaking slightly at his sides. He was not prepared for this, for him. When he'd come into the diner, he'd been expecting Nana. He was ready for Nana, not him. Not _him. _

Glancing up, Jace caught Nana's eye once more. Her grip slipped from where she was holding the boy back, and she nodded in encouragement. Jace lowered his gaze to the boy, to the outstretched offering of his hand. The way he stood there, bouncing on his heels, his blue eyes sparkling with excitement and a major case of hero worship, the way his light blond hair hung into his eyes, gave Jace the strangest feeling. It wasn't pride, like he'd been used to for so many years when people fawned over him and his abilities, but more . . . acceptance. Belonging.

This little boy made him feel like he belonged. With just a smile, just a reach of his hand, Jace belonged.

Swallowing against the hesitancy crawling up his throat, Jace reached out and took the boy's hand. His larger one engulfed the boy's smaller, stickier one.

"Hi," he said, his voice uneven and rough. "It's nice to meet you too, Sam."

"I'm your biggest, bestest fan," Sam said. "I've seen all your games! Well, the ones you play here." Sam frowned. "My dad made me stay home for the far away ones."

Jace fought against every innate instinct to run away and knelt down, so he would be at Sam's eye level. It was the strangest thing, looking into a face that was so similar, but eyes that were completely different. The nerves he'd felt before were still there, crackling and sparking inside, but there was also an unexpected calm washing over him. "That's what I hear," he said, his voice finally normal.

Sam nodded. "I can't wait to tell Kadar—that's my best friend—that I met you. He thinks he's your biggest, bestest fan, but I told him noooooooo. That's me. Then he said we could share, but I said noooooo again because there can only be one biggest, bestest, right?"

Jace bit his lip and grinned. He couldn't help it; the child's excitement was infectious. "Yeah. Only one."

"See! I told him." He turned to his mother. "See, Mama? I told him, and I was right."

"You were, honey," she said, and when Sam turned back to Jace, she mouthed "thank you" to him.

Jace averted his gaze once more. With Samuel, he could take the gratitude, but not from her. He didn't know her, didn't want her. She was the woman his father had chosen over his mother. This was the family he'd chosen, and that knowledge would never leave Jace. It would never hurt less. No matter how much he allowed himself to open to Nana or possibly even Samuel.

Samuel shifted the small football in his hands. "Can you sign my ball?" he asked. "I need proof that I met you. Kadar will call me a liar. Oh, and can you make sure it says I'm your biggest bestest? Because he needs to know that too."

Jace smiled, and he could feel his earlier discomfort growing weaker and weaker. "Yeah, I can do that."

He reached out for the little ball, and Samuel practically shoved it into Jace's hand. His eyes shown bright with excitement, and it took Jace several seconds to tear his stare away. Never in his life had anyone looked at him that way, like he was the "biggest, bestest." Clary's gaze was the closest, but it was still entirely different. She looked at him like a man, like her man, like she loved and wanted every single part of him, good, bad, and ugly. Samuel looked at him like there were no bad or ugly places. Like he was shiny and happy and perfect, when Jace knew he was anything but. It was an indescribable feeling.

Jace turned the ball until the laces were up and lifted the marker to his mouth, biting down on the cap and pulling it off with his teeth, then pushing it onto the opposite end. He touched the tip to the ball and wrote exactly what Sam had asked him to, and then a little bit more.

_To Sam, my biggest, bestest fan. Thanks for letting me be your favorite. ~Jace Wayland #7_

The bell to the diner tinkled in the background, as Jace capped the marker and handed the ball over to the boy. Sam took it, his hands handling it so carefully, as if it were the most precious thing in the world. When he looked up, his eyes gleamed, and for just a moment, they were trained completely and totally on Jace. All of the admiration and gratitude in them showered down on him, and it was nothing like anything Jace had ever felt before. And then, the look was gone, shifted to somewhere beyond Jace's shoulder, where it became even more intense, even more focused.

"Daddy!" Sam cried, and Jace's back stiffened. "Look what I got!" He held the ball out as he ran to what Jace could only guess were his father's waiting arms.

Slowly, Jace stood and turned toward the door to the diner. His heart felt as if it had jumped into his throat, and he was sure it had, when his gaze landed on Samuel hoisted up in Stephen Herondale's arms.

Stephen's stare bore into Jace for a moment, an unrecognizable expression affixed to his face. And then he focused on Samuel, a smile morphing his features as he took the ball and indulged in the little boy's excitement.

"Wow," he said. "That was really nice of Jace. Did you say thank you?"

Samuel faced him once more and said, "Thank you. I'm going to put it up on my shelf by my bed."

Jace held out his fist for the boy to bump. "That's cool, buddy."

Samuel bumped Jace's fist and turned back to his dad, his mouth open as if he were going to say something, but before he did, his brows pulled together in confusion, and his gaze moved from Stephen to Jace.

"Dad," Samuel said. "You wanna know something weird?"

"You know I do. I'm always up for something weird."

Samuel looked again from Jace to Stephen, and the strangest feeling came over Jace. The way Sam's eyes seemed to see everything, see through everything, like none of the bullshit even registered and all he saw was truth. People often dismissed children's intuition because they had no reason to be so knowledgeable, but they often saw far more than anyone ever gave them credit for. Jace saw the instant that Sam's brain recognized what was going on there, even if he didn't know it yet.

Sam bit down on his lip, seemingly hesitant to share his thought, but then he just let it go. "Jace has our same hair."

Jace's breath caught in his throat, and Stephen gave him a worried look.

"You think so?" he asked, trying to downplay it to Sam, but his eyes spoke volumes to Jace. They were asking him the question. They were asking him to choose.

Right now. Not later. Now.

"Uh huh," Sam said. "He has those funny curls by his ears too. You know, the ones Mama likes to twirl?"

Stephen didn't move his gaze from Jace's. He was still asking, and Jace still had no answer. The misgivings were still there, festering inside of him and trying to take him over like cancer. Nana's words came back to him and they were both soothing and more confusing.

_. . . but your rights to him? To Samuel? Those are yours to do with as you please._

Jace had never considered he'd had rights to anything before, let alone this man and this boy. Stephen Herondale had always been a nonentity, a fable, a ghost, and Jace had been perfectly willing to leave him that way. But now it wasn't just Stephen. It wasn't just a dead-beat father. It was a brother too. A brother who was as innocent in all of this as Jace had been.

_If you'd like that boy over there to continue thinking you are just his favorite quarterback and nothing more, then that's your decision to make._

That would have been the easier choice. To say no. To do nothing. To let Sam go on hero-worshiping Jace from afar. To let him go on believing Jace was more than what he really was.

_But if you want more . . . If you want more, then that's yours to choose too._

And part of him wanted it, wanted it so much he could barely breathe. And then Jace realized that it wasn't just about what he wanted. It was about what Samuel wanted too. Because if Jace deserved a choice, so did Sam. Sam deserved to have all the facts, so his choice could be made fairly. Jace could give him that. He would give him that.

Lifting his eyes to Stephen's, Jace thought through the implications of what he was about to do. Samuel could reject him too. He could, and that would be okay, because it was his right, but he deserved the chance to do it.

Jace thought there would be some fear, some panic, some hesitation, but, surprisingly, there was none. There was only determination, resolve.

The question continued to radiate from Stephen: _Do I tell him? Or do I let it go?_

And Jace, with a short nod of his head, gave the only answer he could: _Yes._

Stephen's eyes widened slightly and he drew in a sharp breath, so Jace nodded again: _Yes._

Turning to his younger son, Stephen smiled slightly, hesitantly. "You're right, Samuel. He does have the same hair as us. He also has the same nose and mouth. Not the eyes though." Stephen looked up at Jace, his expression filled with so much emotion it was almost too much. "Those are his mother's."

Jace clenched his fists harder, but he didn't look away. He let it happen, let himself see it, feel it all.

Samuel turned toward him and frowned, his little mind trying to work out exactly what his father was telling him. "Yeah," he said, drawing the word out. "But how do you know he has his mama's eyes? Do you know her?"

"Yes, Samuel, I knew Jace's mama."

Jace's throat tightened at the mention of his mother. A hand settled itself on his shoulder, and the small squeeze it gave let him know it was Nana's.

"Remember when Mama and I told you about Daddy's first wife when he was younger?"

Samuel nodded.

"Well, when I was married to her, we had a little boy together."

"You mean like me? A little boy like me?" Samuel asked.

"Yes, just like you."

Samuel frowned again. "Well, where is he? Why isn't he here?"

Stephen hesitated for a fraction of a moment, and Jace held his breath. He could feel the hurricane of emotion building inside of him, and he wasn't sure how much longer he could contain it. It wasn't bad and it wasn't good. It just . . . was.

Stephen's eyes rested on Jace's face, a sort of resolve of his own settling there. Samuel's gaze followed his father's and a spark of understanding way beyond his years crossed the blue of his irises.

"He is. He's right there," Stephen whispered, his stare never wavering from Jace's. It was steady, strong, and claiming. And Jace could feel it everywhere: his head, his heart, his soul. The broken boy Jace had been born as started to mend, slowly, and just a little, but the effect was unmistakable. "Right there, Sam. Daddy's other little boy is right there."

.o.O.o.

Clary had just begun to pull herself out of the trenches of fever-induced sleep, when the bed shifted beneath her. She opened her eyes, squinting against the harsh glow of afternoon light filtering in through the window and the dull headache still throbbing in her temples. Blinking a few times, she realized she no longer felt hot, and the muscle aches from earlier had quieted as well. With a sigh of relief, she stretched her arms above her head, just as another set wrapped around her waist and pulled her back into a warm, firm body.

"Hey," Jace said, his voice vibrating against her neck as his lips brushed the sensitive skin below her ear. Clary shivered. "Your mom said you were sick. Are you okay?"

"Yeah." She dropped her hands to his, interlaced their fingers, and wiggled back into him. He squeezed her hands and nuzzled his face into the back of her neck. "I think I was just over tired. I feel a lot better now." And she did, especially now that he was there. "What about you? How did things go for you today?"

"Shitty," Jace mumbled into her hair.

"What? Why?" Clary loosened his grip from around her and half-turned, finding him lying on the pillow next to her, his eyes half-open and ringed in shadows. "What happened?"

Jace sighed but didn't say a word. Clary frowned and flipped over the rest of the way to face him. He looked so tired, so physically and mentally exhausted that just looking at him made her want to go back to sleep.

"Jace?" she said, lifting one hand to lie against his cheek.

He closed his eyes briefly at her touch and then met her stare. The usual vibrant gold was dull, the color of sand. His hand splayed across the small of her back and his arm tensed as he pulled her closer, their noses brushing momentarily as he leaned in to kiss her. His mouth remained closed, his lips soft but a little dry. When he pulled back, it was only enough to rest his forehead against hers. Clary's unease grew as so many foreign emotions radiated off from him. She couldn't place a single one, couldn't decide whether they were bad, good, or something in between.

"I'm tired," he said, and his eyes slipped shut once more.

Clary moved her hand from his cheek and ran her fingers through the hair at his temples, eliciting a pleased hum from his throat. "Is that your way of saying you don't want to talk about it?"

The corner of his mouth lifted, and he leaned in once more, capturing her lips with his, this time opening a little and prodding hers apart with the tip of his tongue. Clary let him kiss her for a few minutes, allowing herself to drown in his taste, in the feel of him partially wrapped around her. But after a bit, she pulled back, kissing the tip of his nose in her retreat.

"You're trying to distract me."

Jace smiled wider, his eyes still closed. "Is it working?"

"It always works." She sighed and played with the curls just behind his ear. "You just want me to drop it?"

Jace shook his head. "Not forever. Just right now. I don't want to talk right now."

"Then what do you want to do?"

His arm tightened around her, and she let him pull her body the rest of the way flush with his. "I want to do this. Just this." He paused. "And maybe a little of this." He kissed her again: short, chaste, sweet. "And then I want to sleep. I really want to sleep."

"Okay," Clary said, her fingers still threading through the golden locks at the side of his head. "We can sleep. I need to go use the bathroom, then we'll sleep."

Jace nodded, and Clary could see that he was already mostly there. Carefully, she untangled herself from him and scooted awkwardly out from under his arm. She'd just managed to heave herself off the bed, when she heard Jace's quiet, sleep-filled voice behind her.

"I met my brother today."

She froze and turned toward him. He was lying exactly as he had been, his head resting at the edge of the pillow, his pale lids closed over what she knew were tired, dull-gold eyes, dark lashes fanning over his cheeks. "You did?" she asked, wanting so badly for him to sit up and tell her all about it.

"Mmhmm," was all he gave her in return. And then his breathing evened out, his shoulders rising and falling in perfect intervals against the comforter.

"I'm glad," she answered, even though she knew he could no longer hear her. She looked at him for a few more seconds, marveling in how beautiful he still was. It never grew old, looking at him, studying him, memorizing him. If she let herself, she could do nothing but that for hours upon hours. But at the moment her bladder had different ideas.

Forcing herself to turn away from him, Clary stole out into the hall and into the bathroom. After she was finished, she made her way as quickly as she could back down the corridor toward her room and was just about to turn into the doorway, when she heard a throat clear behind her. She spun around to find her mom standing at the top of the stairs, her concerned gaze on Clary.

"I'm glad to see you up and around. You look better," she said.

"I feel better."

Her mother nodded. "Good. I debated letting him see you tonight, but he seemed so . . ." she trailed off.

"He's asleep," Clary offered, and her mother gave her another concerned look. "It's been a crappy couple of days, weeks, months, really, for both of us. I think we just need to . . . sleep." She shrugged, and then paused. "Are you going to make me tell him to leave? Is that why you're up here? To check up on us?"

Her mother looked conflicted, as if that was exactly what she was going to do.

"Please don't make me, Mom. We're not going to do anything, I swear. We just . . . I need him right now, okay? And I'm pretty sure he needs me."

Their eyes locked. "I don't doubt that. What with what he went through today and all."

Clary frowned. "What do you know about it?"

"Nothing. I just knew Stephen was meeting with him about trial stuff, and I'm sure that can't be easy on him. On either of them." She sighed and looked down at her hand. It was then that Clary realized her mother was clutching something. "And that's not why I came up here, by the way."

"Then why?"

Her mother stared at the small paper square in her hand for a few more seconds before raising her eyes to Clary's once more. "I wanted to give you this."

"What is it?"

"An old picture I found from when I was pregnant with you in one of the boxes downstairs." A hesitant smile pulled at her lips. "I thought you might like it."

Clary didn't say anything in response, and her mother seemed to take that as an okay to proceed. Crossing the space between them, her mother stopped a couple of steps in front of her and held out the photo. Clary paused for a few seconds before reaching out to take it. When she had it firmly in her palm, she looked down, her eyes devouring every detail of her young, very pregnant mother.

She sat on a stone bench-like structure, her gaze focused down on the pale head of a little boy, who held a fistful of white flowers in one chubby hand and touched Clary's mother's stomach with the other. Behind them was a statue Clary was very familiar with, the cupid's bow directed right at her mother and the little boy.

"I know this place," she whispered, running her finger over the rounded curve of her mother's stomach, knowing it was her inside. "Jace took me there."

"Mmm," her mother said. "It used to be one of my friend's favorite spots. We used to meet there and let our boys play together."

Clary nodded, not really registering her mother's words. Her gaze had moved to the little boy in front of her mother, to the way he touched her so carefully, so gently, to the way his blond hair curled slightly around his ears. She didn't remember Jonathan's hair ever curling that way before, not in any photo she'd seen of him anyway. She frowned.

"What is it?" her mother asked, and Clary could have sworn she heard something in her voice.

"Nothing," Clary said, pausing with her finger over the sliver of face showing on the boy, her stare darting from him to the cupid statue and back to him. "It's just . . . I don't know. Jonathan looks different. Smaller, or something. And his hair . . ." Clary shook her head, what she needed to know lingering just out of her mind's reach.

Her mother was quiet, not offering a single word, until Clary looked up at her, shocked to see tears brimming her eyes. "That's because that's not Jonathan."

Clary frowned again and glanced down at the photo. The answer was right there, right within her sights, but she just could not see it. But then she did, she _did_, and it was nothing she'd have ever dreamed possible.

"Mom . . . is this your friend's son?"

"Yes."

Clary swallowed, the impossible becoming more and more probable. "What was her name?" she whispered. "Your friend. What was her name?"

Her mother was silent for a few moments, and when her whispered voice came, Clary couldn't hold back the tears stinging at the back of her eyes. "Celine. Her name was Celine. And her little boy was—"

"Jace," Clary said, his name a half-whisper, half-sob. "His name is Jace." The little boy in the picture was Jace, her Jace. She glanced up at her mother, the tears falling from her eyes and flowing over her cheeks. Her mother nodded, and Clary didn't think before she flung her arms around her mother's neck and squeezed. "Thank you," she said. "Thank you for this."

Her mother didn't hesitate to wrap Clary up in her arms, squeezing her as tightly as she dared before answering. "You're welcome, sweetheart."

And this time, as she buried her face into the soft collar of her mother's shirt, as she let the arms surrounding her hold her the way she'd been needing, as she submitted to the desire to just let it all go, even if only for a moment, Clary didn't object to the endearment.

* * *

><p><em>Until next time, <em>

_XOXO ~ddpjclaf_


	31. Taking Back Destiny

****The character names of The Mortal Instruments are owned by Cassandra Clare. The original content, ideas and intellectual property of this story are owned by ddpjclaf, 2011. Please do not copy, reproduce, or translate without express written permission.****

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Thirty - "Taking Back Destiny"<strong>

_Well, hello there! Yes, this is a chapter! Can you believe it? I can't. This thing really did NOT want to be written, or maybe it was that life in general didn't want it to be written. This has been a loooooooong 3 months for me. I had 4 kids out of school for the summer, had to go house shopping across state, sell my old house, buy a new one, move out of both, and try to settle in to a new place. Oh, and live in a hotel for 2 weeks with those same 4 kids, a crabby husband, and 2 cats. _

_Needless to say, it was fun. Not._

_BUT, well, the chapter is here now, so y'all don't really care about all that, huh? ;)_

_A huge thank you to lightlacedwithbeauty and ktut for their expert beta'ing and pre-reading skill. They did this in only a few hours. They rock._

_Now, how about we go see what's up with Jace and Clary, yeah? Hope you enjoy._

_Chapter songs:_

_**It's Time – Imagine Dragons_

_**Life is Beautiful – Vega4_

_**Hall of Fame – The Script_

_**My Dark Side – Kelly Clarkson_

_**Arms – Christina Perri_

* * *

><p>Jace had seen pictures, had read all about Northern University online and had looked through all his brochures countless times, but none of it prepared him for how it felt to be there, to be standing on the cusp of all of his dreams and physically seeing what might be—and knowing in the back of his mind that it might not.<p>

The imposing stone and glass administration building stretched five stories into the sky in the center, three on the outer, and surrounded Jace on all four sides. Ornate archways provided a through-and-through to the outer academic buildings, and on the top of each, was an enclosed glass walkway that connected each wing to the next. In the middle of it all was a courtyard, where Jace now stood, a gurgling fountain spitting water into the sky a mere five feet away from him, and book-clad students walking quickly past on the opposite side. Jace was used to grandeur and pompous displays of wealth—hell, he lived in a mansion himself—but this was on a whole different scale.

As he followed the meandering students with his eyes, taking in their concentrated faces and confident-seeming steps, he couldn't help but wonder if they'd ever felt as overwhelmed and out-of-place as he did standing in that spot.

If they'd ever felt like as big of a hypocrite.

He knew how he would look to them: like he belonged, like he had a right to be there with them. His clothes were nice; he was good-looking. He had charisma. Or so they would think. Jace had always been very good at playing any part thrown at him, and he knew he could play this one just as well. He could look put together and confident; he'd done that for more years than he could count. But for the first time in his life, he didn't seem to be able to make himself believe the lie as well.

He didn't feel put-together or confident. He felt lost, insecure, and unworthy.

A chilly breeze wafted through the space, and Jace pulled his jacket tighter around him. Voices, busyness, and the promise of "future" exploded into Jace's consciousness, and he had no idea how to feel about it all. Part of him wanted to be excited, to let himself hope and plan and want, but a bigger part of him needed to be cautious, needed to be realistic. Because this—this place, this dream—might not be a reality for him. That was something he had to keep reminding himself. And he did, over and over again.

He curled his fingers around the shoulder strap of his backpack and forced his feet to move in the direction of the athletics wing. His bag thumped against his back, and his feet crunched over dried twigs and grass. He felt various sets of eyes boring into his back and face. Their recognition washed over him. In the past, he'd always welcomed the notoriety that came along with being who he was—a high school football star and Michael Wayland's son—but the difference was, now he didn't know if the stares were because of that, or because his face was all over the papers for something else. Something he didn't want people looking at him for.

Heat traveled up his neck at the thought. He kept his eyes trained on his feet and continued on. Reaching down into his pocket, Jace pulled out the paper on which he'd written Coach Garroway's directions. He read over them quickly, but before he could fold them back up and shove them into his pocket, his eyes trained on a small note scrawled in the corner in Clary's hand. There were several messages written there, most notes of encouragement and strength: _You deserve this. Everything will work out. Don't forget you're cocky for a reason_.

Jace couldn't help but grin at Clary's confidence and how much she thought of him—regardless of whether or not he deserved it. But there was one message, one tiny line written absently in her messy, artist handwriting that made his heart thud and his stomach squeeze more than any of the others.

_You're my favorite first._

To anyone else who read that line, the meaning behind it wouldn't have been immediately apparent. But Jace knew, and he smiled to himself at the memory.

It had all come about the week before, after he'd left the diner, his emotions and mind exhausted beyond anything he'd ever felt before. Meeting his little brother and hearing his biological father claim him as his own were never things Jace had expected to happen. He hadn't known how to begin to understand and deal with the feelings both things brought. As he'd walked out to his car afterward, his brain a land mine of painful memories and insecurities, the only thing he'd wanted was Clary.

Not her words or her touch so much, but her presence. Just her presence. Of everything else in the world, she was the one thing that calmed him, quieted his mind. And, God, he needed some damn quiet.

He'd driven as quickly as the speed limit allowed, his thoughts straying back to the look on Sam's face when Stephen had told him the truth of who Jace was, the shock, followed by disbelief, followed by acceptance, followed by happiness. No one had ever looked at Jace with that much . . . joy before. And Jace had no damn idea how to process it. Not any of it.

When the old farmhouse with the address Clary had given him came in to view, Jace had literally skidded his car to a stop and leaped from his vehicle, his feet sprinting toward the front door, needing to see her, needing her. His heart had nearly exploded in his chest when her mother tried to turn him away, claiming Clary wasn't feeling well and was asleep.

"Please," he'd said, his voice cracking like a fifteen-year old's. "Please. Just let me see her for a minute. I won't wake her. I won't . . . Just please."

He knew he probably looked like a lunatic, like a crazy obsessed teenager begging to see his girlfriend. But he couldn't help it. He needed her. He needed her _so_ damn much.

Finally, her mother relented, and Jace had to restrain himself from sprinting up the stairs too. But all of his desperation dissipated when he'd stopped in front of the open door and saw her lying there, her body curled onto one side, hands positioned under her slightly flushed cheeks. His chest loosened and his mind lightened, and he couldn't stop himself from crawling into bed beside her, wrapping his arms around her waist, and pulling her light body against his. Her warmth and comfort seeped into him and calmed every single nerve that had just been on fire.

As she'd stirred from sleep, the peace that had washed over him was automatic and full. The heaviness that had clouded his mind dispersed and all there was left was nothing. Sweet, sweet nothing.

Jace let her gather him up, hold his heart in her hands, brush away the pain and confusion, kiss away the guilt and uncertainty, and leave him empty and clean. It was relief in a way he couldn't describe. And in that relief, he'd drifted away into the most soundless sleep he'd ever had.

When he'd awoken sometime later—it could have been minutes or hours—he'd opened his eyes to the same dimly lit farmhouse room. Blinking rapidly and lifting his hand to rub his eyes, he'd looked around at his surroundings, his gaze landing on Clary, who sat against the headboard beside him, tears streaming down her face as she looked down at a small square paper in her hands.

Alarm panged in his chest, and Jace sat up beside her. "Baby?" he'd said. "What's wrong?"

Clary glanced up at him, her tear-filled eyes red and sad, but her mouth lifted in a smile. "Do you believe in fate?"

Jace furrowed his brow in confusion. "What?"

"Fate. Do you believe in it? Like, destiny and 'meant to be' and all that stuff."

"I didn't use to. Why? Do you?"

Clary shrugged and lowered her gaze back to the square in her hands. "I don't really think I did before. Like, I didn't dismiss it completely, but I never really thought about it, you know? But now . . . now I wonder if maybe it is true. If we are fated for certain things or . . . or people."

"What's this about, baby?"

Clary handed the square over to Jace. He plucked it from her fingers and realized instantly from the feel of it that it was a photograph. His eyes stayed trained on hers the whole time, a bit of confusion over the look on her face creeping into his mind.

"Look," was all she said.

After a moment, he allowed his eyes to lower, taking in the scene immortalized on film in front of him. He saw the red-haired woman and the little boy, but his brain zeroed in on the scenery behind them. "It's the garden," he said.

"Mmhmm," Clary said.

Jace frowned and looked up at her once more. There was a glint in her eyes and a knowing smile on her lips.

"I don't understand . . ."

Clary scooted closer to him, her leg brushing the length of his, and she reached in, carefully taking the photo from his fingers. "It _is_ the garden," she said, and then pointed at the woman. "This is my mom. And this," she lowered her finger to the rounded protrusion in the woman's—Clary's mother's—shirt, "is me."

Jace nodded like he understood, but he didn't have a damn clue as to what she was getting at. "Okay . . ."

Clary reached over with her other hand and grasped his, tugging slightly so he'd look up at her. When he did, another tear rolled over her cheek.

Jace swiped it away with his thumb. "Why are you crying?"

"The boy," she said, her voice strained.

Jace nodded. "Your brother."

Clary closed her eyes, letting the rest of her tears fall, and whispered, "Not my brother."

Jace frowned. "Then who—"

When Clary's eyes opened, he didn't need her to answer, because, suddenly, he knew. He saw the truth of it there in her emerald greens. Looking back down at the photo, he swallowed hard.

"Shut up," he whispered.

Clary rested her head on his shoulder. "You shut up."

"Seriously?" he asked, twisting his face to look down at hers.

She nodded and grinned at him once more.

"Shit. That's . . . kind of creepy."

Clary giggled and they both looked back at the photo. Jace could see it now, the way the hair curled at the nape of the boy's neck, the way it was more gold than white. The boy was most definitely him, and not Jonathan.

"My mom told me," Clary began, her thumb brushing over Jace's hand as she spoke, the sensation causing goosebumps to rise on his arm, "that as soon as your mother snapped this picture, you leaned down and kissed her belly. You kissed _me_. And then you whispered something in your little two-year-old voice that was supposed to be for only me to hear. But of course she heard too."

Jace glanced down at her once more. "What did I say?"

Clary looked up at him and smiled a smile that made his chest ache. "You said, 'mine'."

Jace couldn't hold back his own grin. "So, you're saying I was a possessive bastard even back then?"

"I'm saying that maybe all the crap about fate and made-to-be is true. Maybe I was made for you, because God knows you've made me yours. Just like you declared way back then."

Jace twisted his body toward her, placed his hands on her waist, and guided her over and onto his lap. Once she was seated, he stared up into her face, taking in the way she looked then: hair mussed from sleep, happy tear-tracks lining her cheeks, green eyes blazing with truth and love and belief in a power greater than themselves that had possibly given them, made them, specifically for each other, and the only thing he could think was that she was so damn beautiful. And so damn his.

"C'mere," he said, his eyes already on her mouth, his hand tucked around the back of her neck, and pulled her into him.

"You know what this means, right?" Clary asked before Jace could kiss her.

He pulled back a little. "No, what?"

Her stare bore into his, and she was so close it almost made him dizzy. "That not only were you my _first_, but you were, technically, my first kiss too."

Jace smiled and brushed a hand between the curtain of hair falling against her face and her cheek. "I'm not sure it counts when you're still in utero, baby."

"It counts to me."

He kissed her then, softly, barely even touching her lips. "But what about your other first kiss? I'd be jealous as shit if I'd been bumped because of a two-year-old's smooch through your mother's stomach."

"I don't care." Clary cupped his face in her hands, her eyes gleaming with a happiness Jace wished he could keep there permanently. "You're my favorite first."

And as Jace stood there in the middle of the college quad, his thumb brushing over the indentation of her words on the corner of the paper, the world going on around him, he could still feel the pressure of her against his thighs, the digging of her fingers into his jaw, taste the sweetness of her mouth as it moved over his. He closed his eyes and ran his tongue over his bottom lip, not able to taste her there any longer but pretending he could.

An intermittent buzz vibrated against his leg and he opened his eyes as he fished his phone out of his pocket.

_Are you there yet?_ The message read.

Jace smiled and quickly texted back. _**Hey. I was just thinking about you.**_

It only took a moment for Clary to reply. _Oh, yeah? What were you thinking? About how much you miss me? About how you feel horrible that I have to go through the torture of another embarrassing doctor visit? Or maybe you pity me for having to go shopping with my mom after?_

_**Nope.**_ This time Jace's grin was slow_. __**I was thinking about how good you taste.**_

_. . . Ooookay. Right. So, you know I'm in the waiting room at the doctor's office and my mom is sitting right next to me, right?_

_**Your point is?**_

_My POINT, Casanova, is that she just saw me turn about fifteen shades of red and gave me a _look_._

_**A look?**_

_Yes! A look. You KNOW the look. Like she knows exactly what is going on in my head._

_**And what's going on in your head? Are you thinking about how you can't wait until the next time you're on my lap, your hand in my hair, and your tongue in my mouth too? Preferably with less clothing though.**_

_Oh. My. God. You're horrible._

_**I think you know I'm not, baby.**_

_Jdjgsfadgfkag! Okay, I'm gonna go now, jerk. Just tell me you're there and not texting me while driving. I'm gonna be pissed if you die before I can kill you for this._

Jace laughed out loud at how flustered he knew she was. He'd seen the many shades of red she turned when he talked to her like that. He loved every one.

_**Yes, **_**Mom**_**, I'm here.**_

_. _

_**;)**_

_. . ._

Jace smiled again, only this time softer. _**I miss you and your fifteen shades of red already.**_

_You think your sweet talk is gonna get me to forget about the revenge I'm exacting in my head?_

_**Yep.**_

_*sigh* _

He was about to write more, tease more, but heard his name being called from someplace behind him.

"Hey, Wayland!" the voice called. "Jace Wayland?"

_**Gotta go, baby, I've been spotted. I'll see you later. **_

Jace shoved his phone back into his pocket without waiting for a reply and turned toward the voice. Eyes from all around were trained on him, but he ignored them the best he could and focused on the approaching figure.

Moments later, a dark-haired boy with the brightest blue eyes Jace had ever seen, stopped in front of him. He looked familiar to Jace, but he couldn't quite place him.

"Hey . . ." Jace said. "I'm sorry, I think we've met but I don't remember—"

"Alec," the boy said, holding out his hand for Jace to shake. "Alec Lightwood. We met a while back outside the dean's office."

"Oh yeah, right," Jace said, taking the offered hand. "Sorry."

Alec shrugged and gestured toward the athletics building just outside the opening in the administration archway. "Coach finally got you to give us a chance, huh?"

Jace glanced through the opening, a chill of uncertainty skating up his spine. "Yeah, I guess." He chewed at his lip and thrust a hand into his hair. "I'm not—I haven't signed or anything. I don't really know if I'm gonna . . . Coach just . . . well—"

"Yeah, I know," Alec said.

Jace raised a brow.

Alec offered a small, sort of sympathetic smile. "It's hard not to know."

Jace nodded and looked away, the heaviness on his chest pressing even harder. This was stupid, being there was stupid. He knew better than to hope for this, to let himself think for even a moment that everything could be okay.

"In the spirit of full disclosure, you should probably know that my sister and Clary are best friends."

Jace whipped his head back toward Alec, the name Lightwood finally connecting in his mind. "Isabelle's your sister?"

Alec nodded.

"Well, shit," Jace said, scratching at the back of his neck. "This isn't awkward at all."

Alec laughed. "Don't worry, man. I do my best not to pay attention to the stuff Iz and her friends talk about."

Jace shrugged and looked away again. His cheeks were red hot. It was bad enough that this guy probably knew more about him and Clary than the average person, but now his blood was betraying him too. In that moment, he was glad Clary wasn't there to see his own "fifteen shades."

"So, should we get to it?" Alec asked.

Jace eyed the boy. "Get to what?"

"The orientation." Alec raised a hand and scratched at his shaggy hair, a look of chagrin crossing his face. "You know, Coach asked us to keep an eye out for you." He nodded in the direction of four other guys who were huddled together near the athletics building, each watching their exchange with what looked like curiosity.

Jace swallowed. "What for?"

"He wanted to speak to you privately before everything started."

"Why?"

"I don't know." Alec shook his head. "But I wouldn't be nervous. Coach seems to really like you. You're all he's talked about for the last few weeks."

Jace readjusted the strap over his shoulder, his gaze drifting toward the looming building before him. He didn't understand this sudden interest from Coach Garroway. Jace had been hounded for the last two years by coaches and scouts from all over the state, and even several out of state as well, but he'd never even heard of this guy until very recently. His attention and insistency put Jace's mind on alert. He felt like he was missing something, something very important.

Jace glanced back at Alec, taking in the kind smile and the honesty behind his blue eyes. He knew he shouldn't have felt so cautious, so skeptical, but with everything that had happened as of late, he couldn't help feeling wary of everyone's intentions. Jace narrowed his eyes and scrutinized the boy a little closer, looking for any shred of a clue as to what was really going on behind his smile. But there was nothing there. Nothing insincere anyway.

Alec's smile slipped. "What?"

"Nothing," Jace said. "I just . . . Where was he when all the other coaches and scouts were all over me?"

Alec frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Jace shrugged. "I just don't get why he's so interested now. Why he didn't get into it when all the others were."

Alec let out a sort of snort-laugh and shook his head.

"What?"

Alec shook his head again. "I just thought that with everything that's happened, you'd be less of an ass."

Jace raised a brow. "Excuse me?"

Alec crossed his arms over his chest. "You heard me."

"Yeah, I heard you. I'm just wondering what the hell you mean by that."

"I mean exactly what I said. Everyone knows what happened with you. Everyone knows that every other school that had been on your radar has dropped you. Everyone knows this is your one and only shot. Yet, it seems like you don't think it's good enough."

Jace's mouth dropped open, but no words came out. He had no idea what to even say to that anyway.

"Look," Alec continued. "I know this is just a state school and not someplace prestigious like SEU or other private schools, but this is a great place. The professors are great; the students are great. And our team is great. All we need is a strong leader to take it to that next level, but if you can't be that for us—if you don't want to—then maybe you should just go home now. We don't really need anymore ego and attitude messing up our team."

Jace blinked a few times, shock pulsing through him at Alec's words. Alec stared at him for a few seconds, as if he expected Jace to say something after that, but when he didn't respond, Alec shook his head and turned away, starting toward the other group of guys. Jace opened and closed his mouth a few times, but his voice was stuck in his throat. He didn't want to start out this way with people who might potentially be his new teammates, but he honestly didn't know what to say. How could he convince them that he wanted this when he didn't even know if he'd be allowed the chance to have it?

When Alec got to about halfway between Jace and the other guys, his words finally tumbled from his mouth. "Alec, wait."

Alec stopped and turned toward Jace, his brows pulled together in the middle.

Jace ran his fingers through his hair and drew in a slow breath. He still didn't know what to say, still didn't know how he felt about the whole thing, so he just said the first thing that came to mind. "Do you think we could stop at the field first before going to see Coach? I'd kind of like to get a feel for it."

Alec stared at Jace for what seemed like forever, and slowly, very slowly, a small smile pulled at the edge of his mouth.

.o.O.o.

The paper covering the small examination table crinkled and stuck to Clary's leg as she tried to get comfortable. Ever since her and Jace's little exchange she'd been feeling a little . . . well, something she shouldn't have been feeling right before an exam from the doctor_. _

_Ugh. Asshole._

Focusing her thoughts on anything other than his words, she pulled at the scratchy gown grazing her thighs, trying to stretch it down over her knees. It didn't matter how many times she'd been in this room, wearing the exact same type of paper dress, it never became more bearable to sit there half-naked in front of a virtual stranger.

Dr. Penhallow scribbled something in illegible doctor scrawl onto the clipboard resting on her lap, before glancing back up to Clary. "How long has the headache been an issue?"

Clary thought back to when she'd first noticed the dull ache in her temples, which had now turned into a full blown pounding. "I don't know. Maybe a week?"

"Hmm." Dr. Penhallow bent her head and wrote some more. "Any other symptoms?"

"Well, I had the flu or something for a day or two last week. You know, I was tired and had an upset stomach, was achy and dizzy, had a fever."

"Are you still having any of those symptoms?"

"Uh, yeah, some. But isn't it normal to be tired and feel sick when pregnant?" Anxiety skittered up Clary's spine.

Dr. Penhallow smiled. "Yes, but we're just covering all the bases."

Clary swallowed. Although Dr. Penhallow seemed calm and unworried, Clary sensed something going on behind her questions. Or maybe Clary was just being paranoid. She chewed at her bottom lip and tapped her heels against the metal platform holding up the examination table. The thudding, along with the scratching of Dr. Penhallow's pen, covered the silence in the room. But it did nothing to calm Clary's racing heart.

After Dr. Penhallow finished whatever it was she was writing, she pushed herself and her rolling chair back and stood. She stepped over to the small sink and proceeded to wash her hands, dry them, and slip on a pair of gloves. The snap of the latex against her wrist made Clary jump slightly.

Dr. Penhallow gave Clary a reassuring smile. "Nervous?"

"I don't know," Clary said. "I guess maybe a little."

"There's nothing to be nervous about, Clary. There's no internal exam this time. We're just going to measure you, listen to the heartbeat, and do a couple of routine tests. Could you lie back for me?"

Clary lay back on the cold, hard table, while the doctor strapped a blood pressure cuff to her arm and proceeded to pull Clary's gown up over her stomach. Clary's face heated in response, but Dr. Penhallow didn't seem to notice.

The cuff around her arm started to squeeze uncomfortably, when the doctor spoke. "Where's Jace? I don't think he's missed a visit since the first."

Clary tried not to grimace as the cuff reached its tightest point, slowly letting a small puff of air out every few seconds. "He's got a college orientation this weekend. He felt bad about missing this. My mom came with me instead. She's in the waiting room."

"She could have come back with you."

Clary chewed on the inside of her mouth and shrugged weakly with the shoulder unoccupied by the pressure cuff.

Doctor Penhallow's expression softened and she nodded slightly. The monitor at Clary's head beeped as the blood pressure cuff deflated completely, and the doctor glanced up at the numbers, frowning as she marked a few things on the clipboard lying on the small table beside them. "Other than the illness and the lingering headache, is there anything else you've noticed that doesn't seem to be normal?" She pulled out a measuring tape and pressed one end to the very bottom of Clary's stomach and the other to the very top.

"No, not really. Why?"

The doctor patted her hand and met her eye. "I'm just being thorough, honey. Your blood pressure is a little high, but that could be due to a number of things: stress, your recent illness, nerves. We both know that due to your situation any one of those could be the culprit. Pregnancy is unpredictable, especially with mothers as young as you. Sometimes what is considered "normal" is not normal at all for others."

"Okay. But what are you—"

A knock at the door cut off Clary's question. Dr. Penhallow lowered Clary's gown and called for the person to enter. A nurse opened the door, apologized, and handed the doctor a paper. Clary watched as Dr. Penhallow's eyebrows pinched together and a line formed in the center of her forehead. Clary swallowed and her stomach clenched a few times. After a moment, the line between the doctor's eyes smoothed and she met Clary's gaze.

"Urine is clean."

Clary frowned. "Oookay . . .?"

"That just means that, other than a slightly elevated blood pressure, everything looks good and on track. Baby is growing just fine, and you seem to be relatively healthy. Now," the doctor said with a kind smile, "how about we listen to the heartbeat and get you out of here?"

Clary relaxed a little, but there was something about the line that had adorned the doctor's forehead, something about the tone of her voice and the forced sound of her chuckle, that had Clary holding her breath. With a nod, she followed Dr. Penhallow's hand with her eyes, jumped slightly when a dollop of cold gel landed on her stomach, and let the gust of shaky air pass her lips when the strong, musical thud, thud, thud, echoed throughout the room.

.o.O.o.

Standing in the middle of Northern University's field brought back memories of the first time Jace had ever set foot in a real football stadium. It was the day of his eighth birthday, and his father had agreed to let Jace tag along on a meeting with the then-coach of SEU's football team. At the time, he'd thought it was the best birthday present ever—getting to run and play on a really real football field, but mostly, getting to spend the day with his increasingly busy and aloof father. Jace had been so fascinated by the bright green of the AstroTurf covering the field and the stadium seating rising up all around them, he hadn't even realized the trip wasn't a present at all. He didn't learn until later that evening, when his father's meeting took so long both of them missed out on the party Jace's mother had planned, that his father had forgotten completely that it was Jace's birthday to begin with.

Now, as Jace stood there, observing a different field, he felt just like he had as that eight-year-old, scrawny, straw-haired kid. He stared up in awe at the seats surrounding him, at the announcer's box situated at the top of the stands, at the scoreboard with the university's mascot and name emblazoned across the bottom. And he was right back there again. He was that same little boy with all the hopes and dreams and plans pressing against the walls of his chest so hard it almost hurt.

Right then, his world wasn't falling apart. He wasn't a week away from standing in front of a judge who could take his entire future—or give it back to him. He wasn't three months away from becoming a teenage father. He wasn't all alone in a world bigger than he could handle.

In that moment, every possibility and every dream and every hope was alive and well, spread out and waiting within reach, begging him to grab hold it of.

Jace dropped his bag from his shoulder and closed his eyes, drawing in a deep breath through his nose. The old, lingering scents of popcorn, cut grass, and sweat permeated the air.

And God, it was the best damn smell in the entire world.

His fingers twitched at his sides, and his palm ached to be wrapped around a ball. He could almost feel the laces between his fingers, the rough pebbled surface against his skin. Every muscle in his arm, shoulder, and back tingled in expectation, as if somehow they all knew exactly what he was supposed to do in this place. What he was dying to do.

"So, what do you think?" Alec's voice came from somewhere beside Jace.

The spell broken, Jace opened his eyes and let himself take in the surroundings once more. It was much like SEU's stadium, only this one was open to the sky, and the grass—mostly green with a few yellowing patches near the edges—was real.

"It's great," Jace said. "It's . . ." His words failed to capture what he really felt. The fear of how much he could love it, how much he wanted to want it, made it impossible to say out loud. Especially to a virtual stranger. He glanced over at Alec, and the boy smiled.

"Yeah. It is."

"Lightwood," one of the other boys called.

Jace and Alec both turned toward the voice. The boy tapped at the watch on his wrist and jerked his head toward the building.

"It's almost time," he said. "If we're going to get him to Coach before everything starts, we need to go."

Alec nodded. "Yeah, all right. Why don't you two go ahead and we'll be there in a minute?"

The guys hesitated for a moment, eyeing Alec with an air of skepticism, before they turned and made their way toward the tunnel leading into the building. Alec let out a huff and shook his head, turning back to look out at the green expanse of the field.

Jace raised a brow. "Animosity between teammates?"

"Nah," Alec said, still looking out in front of him. "They're just too cautious and impatient. Never taking the time to enjoy where they are." He glanced back at Jace and smirked. "Maybe that's something you can work on with them during pre-season."

Jace's mouth fell open, but no words came out.

Alec chuckled, slapped Jace on the back, and bent to retrieve Jace's backpack. "They were right though; it is almost time for orientation to start, and Coach did want to see you first. Come on."

He started toward the tunnel the other guys had disappeared into, and Jace followed along, reaching out to take his bag on the way. Neither of them spoke as they entered the tunnel, cinderblock walls splattered with the school colors—red, gold, and white—surrounding them. Their footsteps echoed along the corridor, and Jace could imagine how it would sound with cleats instead of tennis shoes.

The ache in his chest grew. In the past months he'd tried so hard to convince everyone—to convince himself—that this part of his life could be removed and he would be okay with it. But the longer he was here, the longer he thought about it even being a possibility, the more he realized that it couldn't, and he wouldn't. The game was a part of him—his father had made sure it would be a long time ago—and denying that fact only made it harder to breathe.

Near the end of the tunnel, Alec turned toward a large set of metal double doors. They seemed unassuming—not coated with colorful paint like the rest of the hallway—but when Alec pushed them open, Jace was immediately reminded that there was nothing ordinary about them. The doors squealed in protest and the same scents that had lingered on the field were thick and unmistakable here. Bright red lockers lined the outer walls, and benches painted with gold and white stripes followed the length of them.

Jace stepped into the locker room behind Alec, his feet shuffling over the giant ram's head painted onto the middle of the floor. He let his gaze wander and they fell to the cages below each locker. Red jerseys hung from every hook, names and numbers emblazoned in gold across the back. He let himself take it all in, to imagine what it would be like to see his name and number there.

And then he didn't have to imagine at all.

There, tucked in the corner to the far left, was the number seven. Big as life. Big as it had been in any dream. And just above it, his name. _Wayland_.

Jace swallowed hard, and his feet carried him unconsciously toward the corner. When he reached it, he ran his fingers over the material, the shiny mesh slipping against his skin like silk. The stiff letters of his name made him pause, and something in his chest tightened up.

"Why is this here?" His voice was just above a whisper. "I'm not signed yet. Why is this here?"

"Coach has one for every prospective scout made up," Alec said. "He says it makes them feel more accepted, more at home, and even if they don't choose us, in the end they know they were wanted."

"And I believe that. It's not just something I say." A voice came from the hallway on the opposite side of the room.

Jace turned toward it and paused. Coach Garroway stood framed inside the corridor, his hair a mess and glasses slightly askew on his nose. He held a clipboard in one hand down at his side, and the metal clip on the top was snagged on the bottom of his shirt, pulling it out on one side. It was funny to Jace to see how rumpled this guy looked, but feeling at the same time that he had it all together.

"Coach," Alec said. "We were just coming to see you. Jace wanted to see the field, and I thought—"

Coach Garroway held up his hand and glanced in the other boy's direction. "It's not a problem, Lightwood. Why don't you join the others in the gymnasium to help corral the recruits," his gaze moved back to Jace, "and give Mr. Wayland and I a moment?"

Alec nodded and reached out to clap Jace on the shoulder. "See you around, Wayland."

"Yeah," Jace offered with a nod of his own.

Once Alec was gone, Jace let out a breath, dropped the jersey back to its hanging position, and turned fully toward the coach. He stared at Jace expectantly, as if he were waiting for him to say something first. But Jace had no idea what to say. It was the coach, after all, who'd wanted to speak to him. So Jace wrapped his hands around the straps of his backpack and stared back.

Coach Garroway cleared his throat and finally broke his stare, glancing around the locker room. "So, what do you think?"

"About?"

"This." The coach swept his hand in front of him. "Our little corner of the world."

Jace let his gaze wander once more. This time his eyes caught more detailing in the painting on the floor and lockers. Little ram heads adorned every nameplate on every locker, past players' names were immortalized in a barely discernible off-white along the white stripes in the benches. It felt very much like everyone mattered here—both old and new. It was a feeling Jace was not used to. He'd only ever mattered when he gave someone what he or she needed from him, and when they no longer needed anything, he became nothing once more.

"It's fine."

"Fine?" Coach Garroway lifted a brow, and amusement shown on his face. "Just fine?"

Jace shrugged. He wasn't about to give away how this place made his heart race, how he would give almost anything to one day see his name amongst the others on the bench. "Alec said you wanted to see me before everything started."

The coach ran his free hand around the back of his neck and held it there for a moment. "Right. Yeah, I did. There's something I wanted to discuss with you."

Jace sighed. "Look," he ran a hand through his hair and tightened the other one around the strap of his bag, "there really isn't any need for you to talk up your school or program anymore. I don't need convincing. You're the only one who will have me anyway, at this point. But I still don't know what I'm going to do. I still don't know if—"

"It's not about the program, Jace."

Jace blinked. "It's not?"

"No."

"Then what . . .?"

Coach Garroway took a step back and gestured to the hallway behind him. "Let's step into my office."

Jace frowned, confused as hell, but still followed after the coach when he started down the corridor. When they neared the end, Coach twisted the knob on a doorway and pushed the door open, revealing a coach's office that was much more humble than his father's ever had been. Like his father's, there were trophies lined up on several shelves behind the large, metal desk, and there were pictures everywhere: pictures of the coach and various players, game photos, team photos. But unlike his father's, there were no photos of the coach alone, holding awards or meeting important people. This place felt very much like the office of a man that was proud to be a _part_ of something, not the leader of it.

Without asking permission, Jace let his feet carry him to the back of the room to take in the photos more clearly. The atmosphere in this place—the whole school, not just this room—was foreign and unnatural to him. He'd never experienced this kind of camaraderie. In the past, his football career had focused around what his father said, what his father wanted, and what he'd wanted was for his son to be the star. The only star. Jace was used to being the only one in the spotlight, the only one anyone watched. He could tell already that being here would change that considerably. He'd no longer be _the_ star, but instead, one of many.

The thought of that made him feel lighter than he'd felt in a long time. No more eyes just on him, no more watching and waiting for him to fail time and time again. The season could be lost or won by a whole team, not just him.

"Jace . . ." Coach Garroway said, his voice slightly apprehensive. "I think we should talk . . ."

Jace turned toward him, a question on his lips, when he was distracted by the image of a familiar red-headed woman framed on Coach Garroway's desk. Eyes almost identical to Clary's stared out at him from a face that was not quite her, and years older, but very familiar all the same. She stood next to a giant canvas, a paintbrush in her hand, and paint smeared across her shirt and cheek. She grinned a sly grin very reminiscent of Clary's as well, and next to her, stood the coach, same crooked glasses, same disheveled hair.

Another question formed on Jace's lips, but died in his throat, when his eyes caught sight of another photo, partially hidden behind a stack of folders on the opposite side of the desk. He'd only seen the very top corner of the head, but it was enough to recognize the mop of blond curls and the playful glint of clear blue eyes.

With a shaky exhale, Jace reached out, his fingers closing around the cold, hard frame, his breath catching all together when he freed the photo from behind the mountain of papers. Samuel's contagious smile spread across the portrait's face, his unruly curls—so similar to Jace's own—forming a halo around his head, seemingly making him glow like an angel. Jace gripped the photo tighter, his breaths becoming shallower as his confusion mounted.

Why did the coach have these pictures? How did he know Clary's mother? His brother? What the hell was going on?

Jace glanced up at the coach, who was watching him warily now, and flipped the picture around. "Why do you have this?" he asked, his voice shaking slightly, as his gaze moved to the picture of Jocelyn Morgenstern. "How do you know Clary's mom?"

The coach held his hands out in a calming gesture. "Okay, just . . . this is part of what I wanted to talk to you about. Why don't you sit—"

"No!" Jace said, his voice trembling with anger now. "I don't want to sit. I want to know why the hell you have a picture of my brother."

Coach Garroway rubbed at the back of his neck once more and breathed out in what seemed like resignation. "I know Clary's mother from the city. We met there years ago and have become great friends over time. As for," he gestured to the photo in Jace's hand, "as for Samuel . . ."

Jace's chest squeezed at his brother's name.

"Well, I have that picture because . . . because he's my nephew."

All of the air in Jace's lungs escaped in one breath.

Coach Garroway took a step toward him, but Jace held out a hand in warning. Coach stopped, but never removed his gaze from Jace's face. It was full of sadness, of remorse, of hope. Jace wanted to rip the expression from his being.

"Samuel's mother," Coach began. "Amatis . . . is my sister."

At the sound of her name, irrational anger flowed over Jace, in a way that made him unable to think clearly. There was a part of him that could not see Amatis Herondale as anything other than the woman who'd had his father for all the years he and his mother hadn't. He didn't know the real reason behind his parents' split, and he honestly didn't care. All he knew was she'd had him. She'd had him, and Jace had had a depressed, suicidal mother and a pseudo-father who cared more about making Jace into a legend than a son.

"I see," he said, as he set the photo back on the desk. Years of hurt coiled around his nerves, squeezing them until they were as numb as his heart.

"No," Coach said, "I don't think you do."

"No," Jace replied. "I do. I get it. I get it all." He started to move around the desk, but Coach Garroway stepped in his way.

"Jace, please, let me finish."

"Get out of my way. I'd like to leave now."

"Please, Jace," Coach pleaded again. "Don't do this."

Jace glared at the man, the fury he had kept contained in the pit of his stomach for so many years raged hotter and hotter. "Don't do _what_? Don't stop people from playing with me? Don't stop the lies from happening over and over and over again? Don't let myself be free from all of this bullshit once and for all? Don't do _that _to myself?"

"No," Coach's eyes grew hard. "Don't let the Wayland pride stop you from taking what you deserve."

"This isn't Wayland pride!" Jace said. "This is about all of you assholes keeping shit from me, thinking you know best, thinking you can manipulate me into doing things that will make all of your sorry asses feel better about the past! Did your sister put you up to this? Is that why you've been hounding me so hard? It's not about my playing at all, is it? It's all about making her feel less guilty!"

Coach Garroway frowned. "Jace, I don't know what you're talking about. Why would Amatis feel guilty?"

There was nothing but rage now. None of Jace's thoughts made sense, none of his feelings, but his brain spewed forth the only thing it could. "For stealing my dad away!"

Jace gasped when the words left his lips. He staggered back a few steps as if he'd been struck. Thoughts and feeling swirled in a jumbled mess inside of him, and he couldn't make out any of it. He didn't know where that thought had come from, but he could feel it deep inside of him, like a cancer that had hidden away for years and years, that in the scope of his feelings, it was completely true. The only truth.

"Jace . . ."

Jace shook his head and turned away, his eyes stinging and throat burning. He felt like such a God-damn fool. Like such a pussy. "Just let me leave," he whispered.

"Listen to me first." Coach Garroway's voice was closer, as if he were standing directly behind Jace.

Jace closed his eyes and lifted his face toward the ceiling.

"First of all, you are not here because of Amatis or Stepehen or Jocelyn or Clary. You're here because of you, because of what I see in you when you play football. That's it." He paused. "I would be lying if I said I didn't have feelings about you on a personal level, but those have nothing to do with why I want you to play for me. Do you understand?"

Jace drew in a shaky breath but did not respond. His shoulders ached with how tightly his muscles were coiled.

"As for my sister stealing your dad away . . ."

Jace's muscles clenched tighter. He felt stupid for his outburst, but he wasn't about to take it back.

"I can understand how you might feel that way. I do. But it's just not true. Amatis didn't even know Stephen at the time he separated from your mom. I don't know what facilitated that, but it wasn't her."

"She kept him from coming back," Jace said, his voice so quiet he could barely hear it himself.

"No, Jace."

"Yes," he said, turning to face Coach once more. "She gave him someone else to focus on; she gave him a new family, a new son. She insured he'd never come back to me."

Coach Garroway shook his head and took another step forward. "I think you know that's not true. Your father didn't come back because of himself. No one else."

Jace closed his eyes and lowered his head. He did. But blaming her was easier than blaming _him_. He didn't give a shit what she thought of him, if she'd been the one to not want him, but even after eighteen years, the fact that it was _him_ was still more than Jace could bear.

"Look, son, I love Stephen as a brother-in-law, as the father to my only nephew, but he was a damn coward back then. And don't think for a second he doesn't know and regret that. But for your own sake, you need to either put it into your past and move on without him, or forgive him. You call Samuel your brother, so I'm thinking you'd really like to do the latter."

"I don't know how," Jace said.

"Yeah, well, none of us do. Forgiveness is a tricky, almost impossible thing, but I think you can do it."

Jace glanced up. "You don't even know me."

"True, but I know what kind of man you are." Jace furrowed his brows, and Coach Garroway nodded toward the picture of Clary's mother. "You've made quite an impression on my friend Jocelyn. And, according to her, you've been incredibly brave and selfless in caring for her daughter."

"It was my mistake," Jace said, staring at the photo. "My responsibility."

"Well, I've always been a fan of the concept that making a baby takes two people." He eyed Jace. "And two makes it a shared responsibility. Don't you think?"

Jace shrugged.

Coach Garroway reached out and cupped Jace's shoulder, looking him dead in the eye. "Let Clary accept her part, and let yourself off the hook a little bit. Also . . ." he paused. "Why not let those of us who want to be there for you, be there. It isn't pity. It isn't guilt. It's just a desire to help someone who deserves a little compassion. And Jace, you deserve a little."

Jace ran his hand up into his hair and pulled slightly. He didn't necessarily believe the sentiment, but he wanted to. God, he wanted to.

"Well, now that that's out in the open . . ." Coach Garroway slapped Jace on his back and turned toward his desk. "How about we talk football now, hmm?" And across the table top, he slid a packet of papers, the title on the top one reading: _Northern University Football Program, Letter of Intent. _

Jace glanced up at the coach, and a small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

.o.O.o.

"What do you think of a jungle theme, Clary? Or . . . maybe just shades of blue and gray? Do you have a preference?"

Clary glanced up from her phone to the two crib bedding sets her mother held in her hands. "Blue," she offered, not really caring in the slightest.

"Oh." Her mother frowned and hesitantly placed the colorful jungle set back on the shelf. "Okay."

"Or jungle. I really don't care, Mom."

"No." Her mother shook her head and clutched the blue set to her chest. "Sometimes less is more. You're right. Besides, we can do a lot with blue." Walking over to the cart, her mother placed the bedding set on top of the towering pile of accessories, clothing, and other baby-ish items Clary had no idea what to do with. Her mother paused for a moment, her finger tapping her bottom lip. "I wonder if we have enough onesies? It's been sixteen years, but I remember how much newborns poop—and not just poop, but poop _everywhere_." She absently walked over to the clothing section once more.

Clary shook her head, leaned back against the wall to take some weight off her aching feet, and glanced back down at Isabelle's text.

_Is it horrible?_

_**Kinda.**_Clary typed back_. __**My mom's talking about poop.**_

_Ewwwwww!_

_**Right?! It's mostly weird though**__._

_ Weird how?_

_**I don't know. I keep expecting her to give me scolding looks or lectures still, but she's just acting like this is all normal. Like buying baby stuff with her teenage daughter is an every day thing.**_

_It's not like she hasn't had 6 months to get used to it._

_**I guess. It's just—**_

"Clary look!" Her mother's excited voice came from a few aisles over. Clary peered up and found her mother holding up a package containing a red and gold blanket. "Northern colors!"

Clary bit her lip and nodded hesitantly. She checked the time on her screen. It had only been a few hours since Jace had last texted her while she was at the doctor's office, but she couldn't help but wonder if he was doing okay. As much as he tried to put on a brave face, she could tell he was worried about this meeting. Under normal circumstances, she would have told him he was crazy for being nervous at all. He was a really gifted athlete, and any school would be crazy not to take him.

But these weren't normal circumstances, and it may not matter what the university wanted at all, in the long run. A shiver shot down Clary's spine, and her phone buzzed once more in her hand.

_It's just WHAT?_

_ Clary?_

_ HELLO?_

_ WHERE DID YOU GO?!_

_**Sorry.**_ Clary typed back, pushing the feelings of uncertainty and guilt back down. _**Mom needed me to look at something. I should probably go and at least act grateful.**_

_You know you are grateful, even if you do act like a little snot about it._

Clary shook her head and typed out her last reply, _**BYE, IZ**_, before shoving her phone back into her pocket. It buzzed once more against her thigh, but she ignored it this time. Slowly, she made her way back to where her mother was still browsing the itty bitty clothing. It was the strangest thing, being there with her mother and looking at all of this baby stuff—let alone knowing it was for _her_ baby.

Every day the realization that this was her life was becoming more and more profound. She still had moments of disbelief—of denial, more like it—but for the most part, she'd accepted that this was happening. To her. To Jace. Nothing was ever going to be the way it once was. She was no longer going to be a rebellious teen cheerleader, who snuck out her bedroom window in thigh-high boots to go to a party with her best friend. She wasn't going to kiss random boys in a drunken stupor. She wasn't going to wonder how she would be spending the next Friday night. She was going to be the girl sitting up with a screaming, crying, peeing, and apparently, pooping, baby boy.

This was her life now.

"Clary?" her mother's voice came from right next to her.

Clary jerked and met her mother's concerned gaze.

"You okay?"

Clary blinked and shook her head, trying to dispel the thoughts bombarding her. "Yeah. Just tired."

Her mother stared at her for a moment, disbelief clear in her eyes, but she didn't voice it, and for that, Clary was glad. She didn't want to have another discussion about her feelings. It was hard enough, still, being with her mom again after so much time apart, she really didn't need to get into the personal stuff again right then.

Reaching out, Clary's mother wrapped a finger around a rogue curl hanging near Clary's temple that had escaped the low ponytail in the back. "How about we break for lunch, then check out that art supply store you like before heading home? We can get the rest of the stuff we need for the nursery later." She tugged lightly on the curl, then tucked it behind Clary's ear.

Clary nodded and chewed at her bottom lip. "Yeah, okay."

Her mother gave her a smile and guided her toward the front of the store where they, as quickly as was possible with a cart as full as theirs, checked out and then made their way out into the bustling throng of the mall. Their arms laden in bags, they stopped in the food court. Clary thought her arms were going to fall off with the excess weight.

"Why don't we park it here," Clary's mother gestured to a table close to where they stood on the outskirts of the court, "and I'll go get us food. Chinese?"

Clary nodded and let the bags slip from her arms onto the floor, her veins tingling and burning as blood started to flow unencumbered once more. "Sounds good."

As her mother pushed her way through the crowd, Clary dropped into the nearest chair and let out a deep sigh. Her feet, back, and head throbbed, and all she really wanted to do was go home and sleep. But, even though she'd never been so tired in her entire life, she was sick to death of lying in her bed. She wanted to go out and do something, anything, but her body fought her at every turn. Clary was convinced that pregnancy was God's ultimate punishment to women. Not only were their bodies now slaves to the life growing inside them, but their emotions, hormones, and functions no longer belonged to them either. Clary was constantly hungry and nauseated, tired and antsy, bored and anxious, weepy and giggly, all at the same time. Her muscles ached, her skin itched, and she was so damn horny it wasn't funny.

It sucked. All of it.

But then LJ would kick—sometimes a soft brush, like a caress against the side of her stomach, or an impatient tap, tap, tap to her bladder—and Jace would put his hand over the spot, his fingers answering the knock or swipe, and at the smile that would light his face, she would remember why it would all someday be worth it.

Clary reached down and brushed her hand over the swell of her stomach. Soft, sleepy flutterings danced underneath, as if just that barely-there touch had wakened him. Her mouth pulled up in one corner, and she pressed lightly against the spot she could feel the brushes, and he pressed back, as if he wanted to touch her as much as she did him at that moment. Her smile grew bigger, and she was about to tap to see what he'd do, when she heard a voice she'd hoped she wouldn't have to hear again for a while, off to the side of where she sat.

"Well, isn't that sweet. Look guys, it's our very own teen mom."

Clary rolled her eyes and sighed as the giggles of her former classmates tittered around her. Looking up, she fixed her face into a nonchalant expression. "How original, Maia, I'm surprised you were able to think of that all on your own."

Maia crossed her arms over her chest. "I've got to say, you are the last person I expected to see here this weekend."

Clary raised a brow. "Well, I'm shopping. And," Clary gestured to the shopping center surrounding her, "this is a mall. You know, a place where people . . . shop."

Maia narrowed her eyes. "I'm just surprised to see _you_ here _this_ weekend."

Clary just stared at the girl, not having the foggiest idea what she was going on about.

"I wouldn't have taken you for a prom sort of girl normally, but even more so now—what with your . . . state . . . and all." She cocked her head to the side and peered at Clary. "Do they even sell prom dresses at Motherhood?"

For a fraction of a second, Clary frowned in confusion, but it was enough for Maia to see, and she squealed in glee.

"Oh, this is too precious. Don't you think so, girls?" She turned to her friends, and they all nodded like the followers they were. Maia turned her gaze back to Clary, her eyes glowing in what seemed like triumph. She batted her lashes, as if even that cliché movement could ever make her look innocent. "You didn't know?"

"Why would I care?" Clary said. "I'm not old enough, and I don't even go to school there anymore."

Maia leaned in, her face aglow as if she held the world's best secret. "True," she said. "But your baby daddy is a senior at Northwest and, oh! What do you know?" She produced a gaudy looking purple flyer from her bag and thrust it into Clary's face. It didn't take her long to realize it was an advertisement for Northwest's prom, which was taking place the very next weekend.

Clary swallowed and met Maia's gaze.

Maia grinned wider. "So, the only thing I'm wondering is, did he finally grow a brain and dump your ass? Or," she lowered her voice to a stage whisper, "was he too embarrassed to show up with a fat loser like you?"

Clary did her best to keep her facial expression neutral, as her heart thudded away in her chest and her hands clenched at her sides. "Better be careful, Maia, one might think you're actually curious about my life."

Maia snorted and pulled away. "Yeah," she said, eyeing Clary before turning away and tossing her final words and the crumpled up purple flyer over her shoulder, "that's what I thought."

The ball of paper rolled to a stop at Clary's feet, and she glared at it. Not because she wanted to go, and not because Jace hadn't mentioned it to her at all. But because Maia had gotten exactly what she'd been trying to: she'd rattled Clary, surprised her, made her question—even if it was only for a fraction of a second, even though she knew deep down that it was stupid, and he'd be super pissed that she'd even considered it—if Jace really was too embarrassed to take her.

.o.O.o.

All the way home from Northern, Jace had been a bundle of anxious energy. His thoughts and emotions were still all over the place from the things he'd seen, heard, and experienced while on campus, and while having his "heart-to-heart" with Coach Garroway. He still didn't know what to think about everything that had transpired or how he felt about his father and step-mother's closeness in seemingly every aspect of his life. He found it damn near impossible to believe that their relationships to the coach had nothing to do with where Jace found himself in that moment in time, but there was no way he could prove it. And, truth-be-told, he didn't know if he wanted to. He was damn tired of obsessing over all of this shit all the time.

Maybe it was about time he just let something good happen to him, without all the damn questions.

The one thing he did know, the one absolute truth in this entire confusion, was that the one person he knew he could and wanted to talk about it with, was Clary. As always. Jace had pressed the speed limit as far—as had become the norm—as he could as he made his way out to her new home, but he'd known by the weak smile she gave and the slump in her shoulders as she'd made her way out to his car, that she was not all there at the moment. It became more and more obvious and, honestly, concerning, when he took her to the diner for some of Nana's famous apple pie, and she just picked at it with a fork. She told him she was just in a mood, but Jace could tell that wasn't it. Something was definitely wrong.

She'd listened and had tried to muster the appropriate smiles and congratulations when he'd told her the news: that he'd signed the letter of intent, and if all went well the next week, he'd be joining the ranks as a Northern University Ram in the fall.

Jace hadn't felt bad about her less-than-usual excitement, because she _had_ congratulated him. She _had_ flung her arms around him and kissed every inch of his face, telling him in soft whispers how she knew he could do it, how she'd never doubted him for a second. There was just this undercurrent flowing through her, this out-of-place sadness and irritation that Jace couldn't seem to break through.

After the fiftieth scrape of her fork against the still-full plate, Jace reached out and put his hand over hers. She glanced up at him as the utensil clattered to the table.

"So, are we going to talk about what's bothering you, or are we going to continue to sit here and pretend you're eating?" he asked.

Clary sat back in her seat. "I guess I'm just not hungry."

"You? Not hungry for Nana's pie? How can that be?" he said with a smile. But Clary didn't return it, she just shrugged and hunched lower in the booth. Jace sighed and pushed his plate out of the way, reaching out for her once more. "Come on," he said. "What is it?"

"It's . . ." She blew out a frustrated breath, momentarily displacing a piece of hair that hung in her face. "It's really nothing. I'm just in a mood, like I said."

"Clary . . ."

"Ugh!" she said, and crossed her arms over her chest and glared at Jace. "Why can't you just leave it alone? Maybe I don't want to talk."

"Well, maybe I do, and whatever this is," he gestured at her standoffish posture, "is making that difficult."

She sighed. "What do you want to talk about, Jace?"

"Nuh uh." He shook his head. "You first. I can't do this with you all . . . holding yourself in like that."

Clary growled in irritation and tossed her napkin at him. "You can be so annoying sometimes."

"You haven't seen anything yet. Now, come on." Jace threaded his fingers through hers and brought her hand up to his mouth, pressing his lips against her knuckles and peering up at her from under his lashes.

Her expression softened, and he hid his grin behind her hand. Worked every time.

"You know, I can see you smirking behind there."

Jace smiled wider and let her see it. "Don't change the subject."

Clary rolled her eyes and tugged her hand back. "Fine, but I'm warning you, it's really, _really_ stupid and all kinds of hormonal teenage girl crazy."

"Okaaay," he said, raising a brow.

Clary tried to blow the rogue curl out of her face once more, but it flopped right back against her cheek. She chewed at her lip and rolled her eyes again—this time seemingly at herself. "Why didn't you tell me about your prom?"

Jace frowned. That was definitely not what he'd expected her to say. "What?"

She sighed. "See? Just never mind—"

"No! No . . . I just . . . didn't expect that to be what this was about."

Clary's cheeks turned bright red. "I told you it was stupid . . ." she mumbled and glanced away from him.

Jace got up from his seat across from her and slid into the bench beside her. He reached out and tucked his finger under her chin, lifting until her gaze met his. "No it's not," he said, his voice soft. "I just . . ." He struggled to put his answer into words. "Clary—"

"Wait," she said, standing. "Can we go someplace else?"

Jace blinked up at her. "Why?"

"I just . . ." She scratched at her arm and looked around the crowded room. "Just can we?"

"Uh, sure." Jace stood from his position at the booth, reached into his pocket for his wallet, and pulled out a ten, throwing it down onto the table. Picking up his jacket, he shrugged it on and reached out for Clary. His fingers splayed across the small of her back as he motioned toward the door. "Let's go."

Clary didn't speak and nodded her head as she started forward. They reached the front door after a few awkward squeezes through tables and around people, and Jace caught Nana's eye as he reached out and wrapped his hand around the cold, metal bar. He noticed the concerned look in her eye as she watched them, but Jace gave her a nod that said many things: goodbye, thank you, and every thing's okay, all in one gesture.

Spring-laced winter air swirled in gentle gusts as they made their way across the parking lot. Jace opened Clary's door and held her hand as she carefully maneuvered herself inside. It took longer and longer the further along she got, but Jace stayed by her side as she struggled to bend down, to swing her leg over the bottom of the door opening, to settle herself comfortably in the seat below. When she was finally inside and buckled, he closed her door and walked around to the other side, fishing into his pocket for the keys.

Once he settled down beside her, he started the car and turned to look at her. "Where do you want to go?"

"The garden," she said without hesitation and without even glancing his way. She kept her eyes peeled to the darkening sky around them.

"The garden? Won't you be cold?"

"I'm pregnant and hotter than crap most of the time. I'll be fine. I want to go there."

"Okay." Jace shook his head, but started driving in the direction of the garden anyway.

Clary didn't say another word as they drove. Jace wasn't quite sure what was happening. Was she mad at him? Hurt? Usually he could read her every expression, but there was something different this time, something he wasn't quite sure what to make of.

Before long, Jace was parking in the small lot just outside the woods and walking around the car to help Clary out. Once they were both standing in the twilight, the cool air swirling around them, Clary started to walk. Jace easily kept up with her, but he let her lead. This was her deal tonight, and if he wanted answers to what was up with her, he knew to wait for her to speak first.

It was almost fully dark when they broke through into the circle of the garden. The soft glow of the moon cast a strange blue light on the face of the cupid statue, and dim solar lights shone from all around the stone floor. Jace couldn't decide whether he liked it there better at night or during the day.

Clary came to a standstill just in front of the statue, her face upturned as if she were speaking to it. "I think I love it here more now than before."

Jace stuck his hands into his pockets and moved in close behind her. He could feel the heat of her body through her coat and his. He wanted to wrap his arms around her waist and hold her against him, but she seemed so far away, like if he even tried to touch her, she would consistently be out of his reach.

"Why?" he asked, his breath shifting the small hairs against the back of her neck.

She shivered noticeably. "Because it feels like it belongs to us. Like it always belonged to us, but we just didn't know it."

"Clary . . ."

She sighed and turned back to him. He was stunned to see that shame was the most prominent emotion on her face. "I ran into Maia at the mall today. She . . . said some stuff. About prom. And you. And me. And I . . . it just made me wonder."

"Wonder what?"

"Why you didn't say anything." She peered up at him. "Why you don't want to take me."

He let his gaze move from one of her eyes to the other, searching. "Is that what you think?"

"No," she said. "I just . . . no. It isn't."

"Then why would you ask me that?"

She let out a flabbergasted sigh and lifted her arms, letting them drop loudly to her thighs. "Because I'm stupid!"

"You're not stupid—"

"Yes, I am. I am," she said. "I let her get to me. I knew that's what she wanted, but I let her do it anyway."

"Why?"

"Because . . ." She looked at him pleadingly, like she was imploring him to understand the female psyche without her having to explain. As if that shit was ever going to happen. "Because I'm still a teenage girl, Jace. I still find myself wondering why you like me sometimes, wondering how I can ever be enough for you. For anyone. Because that's just how girls think sometimes. We're never fully confident. Always guessing. Always wondering. And even though I know you love me, that you want me, sometimes I still wonder why. Maybe that will never change. I don't know."

This time Jace could not stop himself from reaching out to her. His hands closed over her hips and he tugged her forward. She resisted at first, the embarrassment clear on her face, but after a bit, she gave in and let him pull her into him. He laced his fingers behind her back and bent forward, touching his forehead to hers.

"Do you wanna know why I didn't say anything about prom?"

She nodded and pulled back. "Yeah."

"Well, two reasons, the first being . . . Honestly? I just really didn't want to go." She tried to pull away further, but he held tight. "And it had nothing to do with you and everything to do with . . . me . . . with them. The Maias and Kaelies and any other idiot who think high school is the end-all, be-all of existence. I don't feel the need to prove myself to any of them anymore, Clary. I don't feel like I need this "right of passage" or other bullshit people call stuff like this. I just didn't feel like it was something important for me. And . . ." He wasn't sure he wanted to tell her the second part.

"And . . .?" she hedged.

Jace sighed. "And . . . I wasn't even sure I'd get the chance to go anyway." He met her gaze.

Her expression softened almost immediately. "Jace—"

He lifted his hand and touched his finger to her lips. "Shh," he said with a shake of his head. "I don't think of it in a 'pity me' sort of way, so don't you either. It's just the way shit is." Jace pulled her tighter against him. "I'm okay with it now, baby. I am. None of this other shit—high school dances, graduation, college football—none of it matters anymore to me. I have bigger things to worry about, bigger things to think about and wish for, you know?"

"Yeah," she whispered, sadness lacing her tone.

"It's almost over," he whispered back, leaning into her. "Next week the waiting and wondering and worrying will all be over. We'll know which way it's going to swing then, and we'll deal with whatever it is together. Okay?"

Clary closed her eyes and nodded her head. "I'm scared."

"Me too," he admitted.

Jace felt her hand fist into the back of his jacket, and the warm puff of her breath against his cheeks when she breathed out.

"What are we going to do if it doesn't go our way next week? If they send you—" Her voice broke. "What are we going to do?"

Jace took her face into his hands and looked into her eyes. "We're going to be all right. Both of us, regardless of what happens."

"But how—"

"Remember when you were asking me about what I thought about fate? If I believed in destiny or soul mates or whatever?"

She nodded.

"I said I didn't really know, because, honestly, I don't. But I feel . . . something . . . different with you. I always have. I feel it here." He lowered one hand and held it in a fist over his stomach. "I feel it here," he whispered, raising his hand to touch his fingertips to the skin over his heart. "I don't know if it's fate that we met. I don't know if we're destined to be. I just know that we _are_. I can't explain how or why, and I'm not sure I even want to. I just know what is. Right now."

"Me too," she said. "I feel it too."

"So, how about we let fate or destiny or whoever it is that may hold the strings to our future, know how we want it to go. What _we_ say is right."

Clary gazed up at him. "How do we do that?"

Jace grinned and took a step back, looking up at the cupid statue towering above them. "Remember the night we met—well, the second time? When you told me about the baby?"

"Yeah?"

He glanced over his shoulder at her. "Do you remember what you did when we got here?"

Clary frowned. "Um, you mean besides ruining your night?"

He grinned and hopped up onto the small wall surrounding the fountain. "Yes, besides that."

"Then no."

Jace smiled again and turned back to the statue. Its expression was fierce and stern, not at all what a chubby baby was supposed to look like. But it wasn't like cupid was an actual baby; he was an angel, and angels were not fluffy and cute and sweet. They were warriors. Warriors of whatever task they were given. Cupid's was love.

If Cupid was real and shot real arrows, he'd gotten Jace straight through the heart months ago, as he'd engaged the amazing girl that now stood before him. Reaching up, Jace took the symbolism of cupid's arrow and made it more tangible, more real, and pressed the pad of his finger to the sharp tip, just as Clary had all those months earlier.

A piercing sting bit at his finger, and a warm slide of liquid flowed down his skin. When he was finished, he wrapped his hand around the cold steel of the arrow and wrenched it free from the seat of the bow.

He hopped down from the fountain wall and slowly made his way back to Clary. She stared up at him, her eyes large and bright in the moonlight. Every time Jace saw her like this—open and honest and pure—he never thought she looked more beautiful. He stretched out his hand, the arrow nestled safely in his palm, and offered it to her.

"There," he said. "I'm taking back our destiny. Now no one, no force, no entity, no anything, controls it but us. Not my father or yours. Not the little shits that think they run our schools. Not the judge next week. No one but us."

Clary smiled and stepped forward. She didn't take the arrow from him as he'd intended. Instead, she wrapped her hand around his, leaving it pressed between them.

"I like that," she said, as she pulled him closer, her lips only centimeters from his.

"Me too," he answered, just before he kissed her, his lips brushing hers softly, and it was like a seal, a protectant over the proclamation he'd just made.

Next week, Jace would stand before a judge who didn't know him, who didn't care, personally, one way or another what happened to him, but for tonight, he was standing before no one. It was just him and his girl, in their garden under the soft rays of moonlight, and the symbol of a destiny so many thought had already decided what was to come, trapped between their hands, between their bodies, where only they had the power to wield it.

* * *

><p><em>We're extremely close to the end now, guys. Maybe 4-5 chapters, including an epilogue. Next chapter will be the preliminary trial, and then very soon, we get to meet little LJ!<em>

_There's one thing I'd like to say about this chapter:_

_For those of you who are thinking or want to complain about the way Clary "wasn't strong" with Maia, I'd like to ask, are you always strong when someone talks down to you? Don't you ever feel defeated, and even though you know better, start to question yourself and others? Because I certainly do, and DID as a teenager. Clary is a vulnerable 16 year old girl, and she is entitled to feeling less some days. And Jace, well, Jace is very much alone and has been for the majority of his life. He has anger he needs to deal with. These two characters are still growing. Every day, every chapter, they are growing a little bit more, but it is slow, and it is hard. And sometimes, they falter. No one can be strong all the time, and no one can take as much as these two are without losing it sometimes. Just like real life. _

_I hope you enjoyed this and that you weren't disappointed after the long wait._

_Until next time, xoxo_

_ddpjclaf_


	32. The Way It Ends

****The character names of The Mortal Instruments are owned by Cassandra Clare. The original content, ideas and intellectual property of this story are owned by ddpjclaf, 2011. Please do not copy, reproduce, or translate without express written permission.****

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Thirty-One - "The Way It Ends"<strong>

_Thank you SO MUCH to lightlacedwithbeauty and ktut. You ladies rock, and I love you both. Your comments and flails and tears made my night. My week. *muah*_

_Omg. This chapter, you guys. THIS CHAPTER. It was more difficult to get out than my children. And maybe almost as painful. Okay, maybe not THAT bad, but still. _

_I have been advised to tell you that tissues may be a necessity. If you are easy to cry, do not read in public. If you are medium-easy to cry, probably still not a good idea. Hard criers? Go for it!_

_My beta and pre-reader said this chapter was emotionally very difficult to read. They were both complaining of aching hearts and tears welling throughout (lightlacedwithbeauty says it STILL hurts this morning, so . . . ) I believe this is fair enough warning._

_I am going to claim creative license for the legal aspects of this chapter. I am not a lawyer and I've never been to actual court. Research can only give you so much information when you haven't experienced it firsthand. So, please allow some leniency when it comes to this._

_Oh, and please don't kill me._

_Enjoy?_

_Chapter songs:_

_**Sweater Weather – The Neighbourhood_

_**Ache – James Carrington_

_**The Way It Ends – Landon Pigg_

* * *

><p>"I don't think I'm going to make it home tonight, sweetheart."<p>

Clary stood at the window, her phone tucked between her shoulder and her ear as she held the yellowing lace curtain to the side. Rain poured in torrents down the pane of glass and obscured her view into the yard, but the sharp whistling of the wind and the creaking and cracking of branches gave her a pretty good mental picture. "Is it bad there too?" she asked as lightning flashed in several short bursts.

She winced as the constant pain in her head spiked with the brightness. Thunder rolled through the dark night, shaking the house as the sound built to a crescendo and faded out as quickly as it had come. Clary leaned in and squinted to try and see through the rivulets of rain.

"Yes, and they've closed the Glenn County bridge due to an accident and don't have an ETA as to when it's supposed to reopen," her mother said, her voice crackling on the other line. "I figured it'd be best to get a room here for the night."

Clary sighed and dropped the curtain as another loud crack of thunder boomed. A shiver raced down her spine, and she rubbed at her arm to quell the gooseflesh starting to rise. "Yeah, okay."

"I'm sorry," her mother said. "I know how you don't like to be alone out at the farmhouse. And with Jonathan out dealing with school stuff . . ."

Clary bit her lip and peered across the room to where Jace stood watching the storm through the opposite window, his brows pinched in what looked like frustration. "Well . . ." she said. "I'm not _exactly_ alone."

Silence engulfed the other end of the phone for several seconds, and then Clary heard her mother let out a slow breath. "Clarissa . . ."

Clary turned away from Jace and lowered her voice. "Mom, it's not like I can ask him to drive home in this. Besides, I mean, really, what do you have to worry about?" She glanced down at her swollen stomach.

"I'm not worried about anything," she said, a touch of annoyance entering her voice. "But as a mother, it's engrained into my brain to disapprove of my sixteen-year-old daughter's boyfriend spending the night _alone_ with her, despite our particular circumstances."

Clary snorted into the phone.

"Don't snort at me. I know it's ridiculous." She sighed. "Just lie to me and tell me he'll sleep in Jonathan's room."

"Mom, that's dumb."

"Humor me. Appease my motherly instincts."

"Fine." Clary rolled her eyes. "He'll sleep in Jonathan's room."

"That sounded really sincere." The sarcasm in her mother's voice was thick. She sighed. "Good night, sweetheart, and don't hesitate to call if you get scared."

"I think I can manage without you for one night."

There was a pregnant pause on the other end of the line. "I suppose you can . . ." Clary didn't miss the sadness in her mother's voice.

"I'll call if I need to. Bye, Mom."

"Bye, dear."

Clary shoved the phone into her pocket.

"So, I'm sleeping in your brother's room?" Clary turned and met Jace's amused expression. "Should we leave it noticeably disheveled after we christen it?"

Clary raised a brow. "Who says we're going to be doing _that_?"

"I figured it was a given." Jace gestured to the room. "Two teenagers. Alone. An empty house. Many available surfaces on which we could do all sorts of prohibited things. Not to mention," he swept his hand toward the window, "Mother Nature seems to have given us perfectly cliché weather that just screams: have loud, dirty sex. I'd hate to disappoint her."

Clary crossed her arms over her chest, biting the inside of her mouth to keep herself from smiling. "Uh huh. Let's say you're right—"

"I usually am."

Clary ignored him and continued. "What does 'christening' my brother's room have to do with anything?"

"Defiling anything of your brother's makes me feel extremely accomplished."

"You know, you wouldn't have a life to live anymore once he found out what you did to his little sister in his room, right?"

Jace pretended to think about that for a moment. "Worth it," he said. "For more reasons than one."

Clary crossed over to him and wrapped her arms around his waist, lifting her face to meet his gaze. She attempted to make her expression serious and scolding. "We're not doing it in his room." And then she paused, her voice and face softening. "And you're totally not sleeping in there either. Especially not tonight."

Jace's smile slipped from his lips and he hugged her close, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. He didn't have to say anything in response. He knew what she meant. And she knew he felt it too: the sensation of time slipping away, of the room closing in on them, little by little every minute.

Another peal of thunder broke and shook the house as if something had crashed into the walls. Clary tightened her grip on Jace, the playful mood shattered in an instant. "I shouldn't have asked you to come out tonight. I knew there was going to be a storm, and I knew you had stuff to do. I'm sorry."

"I wanted to come."

"I know, but painting the nursery could have waited until after the tri—"

"Stop." Jace squeezed her. "We agreed not to talk about it. Not tonight. I wanted to be here with you, Clary."

Clary's shoulders slumped, and she rested her cheek against his chest, turning her face to watch the rain as it pounded against the glass. Jace was right; they had agreed not to talk about what tomorrow was, what it might mean for both of them. But she was antsy and worried. And scared. Really, really scared. Part of her needed to hash it out, to discuss all the ifs, ands, and buts that might occur. But the other part of her really _didn't_ want to talk about it either.

"But I know you had some things you needed to do before . . . before tomorrow," she repeated.

Jace shrugged and tightened his hold on her. He'd been doing that so much in the last week: squeezing her tighter, kissing her longer, touching her softer. It was as if he were lingering with every moment, stretching them all out like he was afraid they'd disappear sooner if he didn't. Clary loved it and hated it all at the same time. Loved it because she loved every time he touched, kissed or held her. But hated it because she could feel him slipping back inside himself, maybe to shield her from what could happen, maybe to shield himself, or maybe a little of both.

"It's okay," he said. "It was just finding a damn suit and tie and getting a haircut. Sort of a last ditch effort into making myself seem less like the pedophile people think I am. But I'm sure they've already made their minds up about me anyway. It's not like fancy clothes and clean-cut hair will change anything."

Clary frowned. "No one thinks you're a pedophile. It's not like you're thirty-five or something. We're both young, Jace. They're going to see that."

"Yeah," Jace said, but his voice was not convincing.

He stared out into the downpour, his gaze clouded and just as dark as the storm tearing up the sky outside. Jace seemed to be trying very hard to hide the fear eating away at him, but Clary could see it in every facet of his being: the way his eyes remained downcast and cautious, the wrinkles that seemed to don his forehead no matter what mood he was in, and the way he constantly had his arms around her. It was as if he had lost some of the hope they'd gained together over the last six months, and she couldn't blame him, because she thought that maybe . . . she had lost a little bit too.

Reaching up, Clary swept a chunk of the hair hanging over his forehead to the side. The golden curls there were beginning to dangle further into his eyes and the ones at the back of his neck were starting to wind up around his ears. Clary thought he was as beautiful as always and didn't need to change a single thing, but if he thought he did . . .

"I could cut it for you, if you want," she said. "It's not like you're going to get to leave here any time soon anyway." She gestured toward the obscured window.

"You don't have to do that, Clary. I can go in the morning."

"I don't mind."

"What if you make me look like an asshole?" One side of his mouth twitched slightly.

"Well," Clary said. "I can't make you look like any more of one than you already do."

"Ha. Ha," he said.

"Seriously though, I've cut Jonathan's and Simon's loads of times. It's just a trim. How badly could I screw that up?" Jace raised a brow, and Clary shoved at his chest. "Fine! Go tomorrow looking like Cousin It. I don't care."

Jace grabbed her wrists and held them against his chest. It was an aggressive, protective move, but his grip was soft. "Cousin It? Really?"

"If the shoe fits."

Jace smiled. "It doesn't fit, baby." His face lost its joking expression, and he let her hands loose. "You know I do trust you, don't you?" He tucked a rogue strand of hair behind her ear. "I was just teasing."

"Yeah, I know." Clary tugged on a curl hanging over his forehead. "You know you look fine as you are, right? You don't need to change anything for them."

Jace lowered his gaze, and Clary could read the uncertainty in the creases above his brow. "Maybe I need to do it for me."

Clary's throat tightened at the thought that he felt like he needed to change anything about himself at all. Yes, she got that it was just a haircut, but it felt like so much more, like he was surrendering to them, to this whole thing. And from the look of shame on his face, she knew he felt that way too.

Taking his hand, Clary tugged and directed him toward the door. "All right. Come on, then."

Jace raised his gaze to hers and the look in his eyes was enough to make Clary's chest clench. They said, "thank you" and "I'm sorry," all at the same time. Turning away, Clary swallowed the lump forming in her throat. She led him out to the hall and into the small bathroom just across the way. It was a bit cramped with the both of them in there but it would work.

"Pull that out and sit down," she said, as she pointed at the wooden stool in the corner.

Jace did as she asked, not saying a word as she gathered the haircutting scissors, spray bottle, and comb from the cupboard next to the tub. Before turning back to him, she grabbed a clean towel from the pile of linen stacked neatly above the toilet. She sat everything but the towel on the vanity and finally faced him. The house grumbled and groaned under the wind and rain beating against it, but all Clary could concentrate on was the way Jace was looking at her. So sincerely. So intensely.

"What?" she said, lowering the towel carefully to drape around his shoulders.

His hand came up and trailed along her arm as she pulled back, his touch hot but gentle, all fingertips and soft, smooth skin. "I love you," he said.

Clary stopped and stared down at him. He'd said those words to her more times than she could count, but there was something about the way he said them now, so matter-of-factly, not like it was a declaration or like it was uttered in the heat of the moment, but like it just was, like it always was. It also sounded a lot like goodbye.

"I know," she said, slowly.

"No," he said, threading his fingers through hers and pulling until her knees bumped his. His other hand came up to cup her hip, and his eyes . . . God . . . his eyes . . . They were so large, so bright, so serious. "I mean I love you. I really love you. Not kiddie love. Not teenage infatuation. Not the kind that burns so hot and bright that you can't see, or feel, or think about anything else. The kind that's quiet, and humble, and . . . and real. The kind that people say we're too young for, that we can't possibly feel at our age. That's how I love you." He swallowed. "And even though I know you're not ready . . . I know you want to wait . . . I wish so much that you'd just say yes now."

Clary's face heated with his words. She knew exactly what he wished she'd say yes to. "Jace . . . I—"

Jace shook his head and pinned her with his stare. "I didn't say that expecting you to say anything in return. In fact, I don't want you to say anything. I know you're not ready for that." He sighed. "I know you love me, Clary. I don't doubt that for a single second. And I won't, no matter how long it takes you to answer." He reached out and ran his knuckles down the side of her face. "Just like I don't doubt that you're it for me. Yes, we're young. Yes, our lives are barely beginning. Yes, we're doing things all out of order, but that doesn't change the fact that I feel it. I feel it in my bones. I feel it everywhere." His voice lowered. "You're it for me. You'll always be it for me. I just needed to say it. I need to continue to say it, so you continue to know it. And then . . . when you are ready . . . you'll say what _I_ want you to say too."

Clary stood there for a few seconds, her body frozen in place. Jace's words had shocked her, not because she hadn't already known them, she'd just never heard him say it like that. The confidence behind them, like he just . . . _knew_, that he had no doubts at all. Not about her. Not about their future. Not about anything. She didn't know how he did it, because she doubted almost everything.

"Okay," he said, as he pressed his lips to her knuckles and then let her hand slip from his. His mouth curled up slightly at the corners and he gestured to his head. "My hair is at your mercy."

Clary couldn't find any words, but she didn't move to start on his hair; instead, she placed her hands on his cheeks, her pinkies hooking under the back of his jaw, and lifted his face to hers. For a moment, she just looked at him, stared into his golden eyes and hoped with everything in her that he could see everything she couldn't say inside of hers. And then she bent down and kissed him. It wasn't an earth-shattering kiss, or one that made her knees weak. It was sweet and innocent. It was exactly what they were in spite of everything they'd been through.

She brushed her thumbs over his cheeks, the stubble scratching the pads of her fingers. Jace's mouth was warm, soft, surrendering. He never tried to take control, never tried to hurry her up or change the pace and intensity, even though Clary could feel him tensing beneath her. He let her lead him. And that's when she knew for certain, when _she_ could feel it in _her_ bones: he was it for her too.

A loud crack of thunder broke into Clary's consciousness and she stopped the kiss, knowing that if she didn't do it now, she wouldn't be able to at all. She moved and pressed her lips to his jaw.

"Thank you," she said and started to pull away.

Jace's grip on her hip tightened, holding her there. "For what?"

"For saying that. For understanding. For . . . loving me like that."

His breath tickled her skin when he spoke. "Don't thank me. I don't know any other way."

Clary closed her eyes and rested her cheek against his for a moment, reveling in the warmth and roughness of his skin and the indescribable scent that was decidedly male and entirely Jace, before she pulled back all the way. Without a word, she turned to the sink and gathered her spray bottle, feeling Jace's eyes on her the entire time.

Drawing in a slow breath, she turned back toward him. The bottle shook slightly in her hand as she sprayed his blond locks until they were damp and the color of brass. She then worked her fingers through the strands to make sure they fell in a way that was natural. When she picked up the scissors, she met Jace's gaze in the mirror. She felt less certain now, but he gave her a small, reassuring smile and a nod of his head to let her know that it was okay.

Clary took her bottom lip between her teeth, drew in one last calming breath, and started to cut. Wisps of blond hair fell from her fingers and gathered into a ring around them on the floor. Clary didn't look up to meet Jace's gaze in the mirror once she started. She kept her eyes solely on the task at hand, making sure each cut was precise, that each one was perfect, strand by strand, curl by curl. She was never this cautious, this nervous, when cutting her brother's or Simon's hair. Perhaps it was because she knew Jace needed to look good for tomorrow, or maybe it was just because this was_ Jace_, and she loved him exactly how he was, raggedy, unruly hair and all. Regardless, she cut, and she cut, and she cut, until no more hair hung into his eyes or coiled around his ears. No curls trailed down the back of his neck or flopped over the top of his head.

Clary placed the scissors back onto the edge of the sink. She still avoided his eyes as she slowly threaded her fingers back into his hair, checking every inch for uniformity. It all looked good, but where the curls had once twisted around and hugged her fingers, there was nothing. Just short, neat, grownup hair. And for some reason, that change, that difference made everything she'd been trying to hold back, everything the two of them had been dancing around all night, come crashing down onto her. Her throat tightened and her eyes stung, the vision of her hands in his hair blurring.

"Clary?" Jace asked. When she didn't answer, he reached up and placed his hand on top of hers. "Are you all right?"

"Tell me it's going to be okay," she said, her voice trembling with all the held back emotion. "Tell me it's going to be okay and mean it."

Silence stretched long and heavy between them, and after a few moments of it, Clary looked up. Jace's reflection in the mirror was staring back at her, and in his eyes she could see it. She could see he couldn't say it, because he didn't believe it.

Clary squeezed her eyes shut and a small sob escaped from her mouth. Hot tears slid over her cheeks and caught at the edges of her mouth, coating her lips with salt.

There was a loud scrape and then Jace's hands were on her face: strong, rough, but still so gentle. His thumbs swiped across her skin and wiped away the wetness gathered there. He pressed his forehead to hers and his warm breath spread across her lips.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

"No, I am," Clary said, sliding her hands over his. "We promised we wouldn't—"

"Clary, it's okay. We can—"

The rest of his sentence was cut off by a near-deafening crack of thunder, a flicker of lights, and then everything went black. Quiet blanketed the room, the only sounds were the pattering of the rain against the windows, the echoes of the last clap of thunder, and the near-silent pulls of their breath.

"Please don't cry, baby," Jace said, his finger still stroking her face, still displacing the tears that wouldn't stop. "I'm so tired of making you cry."

"You don't make me cry." Jace shook his head in protest, but Clary stopped it by grabbing his chin and stilling the movement. "You don't make me cry," she repeated, her voice lower, softer. "My hormones make me cry. My parents and brother make me cry. This messed up situation makes me cry. But you . . ." She let her fingers trail the line of his throat. "You don't ever make me cry."

Jace's hands slipped back and tangled into her hair. He tipped her head down and kissed her lightly on top of it, keeping his lips there and displacing her hair with his breath. "I want to promise you it's going to be fine. I want to promise you that so God-damn bad."

Clary clenched her eyes shut and nodded into him.

"But I can't and it makes me feel like such a . . . a failure."

"Jace, you're not—"

"I am," he said, his voice trembling slightly with his words. "I can't protect you from this. I can't protect either of you. And I'm so damn scared of what that means." His voice lowered. "I'm trying to be a man about this. I'm trying so hard to keep it together for you. But I can't . . . I can't—"

"Shhh," Clary said into his neck, her tears flowing faster as he broke. "You don't have to keep anything together for me."

Her lips brushed against his throat and his Adam's apple bobbed against her mouth when he swallowed.

"I do," he said.

"You don't. I promise you don't." She lifted her hands to his chest and could feel how quickly he was breathing and how hard his heart pounded against his ribs. "You don't always have to be strong for me. Sometimes it's okay for us to be weak together." She wanted to take the fear and uncertainty away, but all she could do was soothe it with her fingers and lips and words.

More thunder rumbled and lightning lit the room in short, intermittent bursts, but Clary paid them no mind. Her mouth followed the curve of his neck to the edge of his collarbone, and she could taste the tang of sweat and promise of rain on his skin.

"I don't know what I'm going to do if I have to be without you," he said. "If I can't touch you like this, kiss you like this, whenever I want." Jace's hands tightened in her hair and his lips moved from her head, to her temple, to the edge of her jaw, soft, whispering, with just a touch of tongue. But the way he held her face was anything but gentle. It was possessive, hard, and completely driving her crazy.

Clary didn't answer, because, what could she say? She couldn't reassure him when she was so unsure herself, but she didn't want to agree and make his fears more tangible either. So, instead of saying anything at all, she tipped her head back to allow him more room, letting his words disappear into the ether, like vapor in the wind. Jace lingered over every inch exposed to him, his kisses still not hard or domineering but with an edge to them, a desperation.

Clary knew what it was and felt exactly the same way. Time was not merely slipping anymore, it was gone.

She fisted her hands into his shirt and leaned in to focus on his neck again, but Jace was suddenly right there, his mouth on hers, demanding and breath-stealing. Clary gasped, and he swallowed it whole. Her heart slammed in her chest and her grip on him tensed as his tongue slipped between her lips. He walked her backward until her back hit the bathroom door.

Jace's body slid against hers, conforming perfectly around her stomach, every part touching where every part should. They'd become good at this, good at working around Clary's changing form, good at knowing every inch of the other's body well enough for it to be natural.

His kisses grew deeper, harder, longer. The kind that seemed like he was dying of thirst and the only thing that would quench it was hidden somewhere deep inside Clary. Like he couldn't breathe, couldn't exist, without kissing her. It was exhilarating to be kissed like that, to be touched like that.

It was almost enough to make her forget. Almost.

Jace shifted the way they were standing and Clary's back met with the knob on the door, sending a sharp pain stabbing through her.

"Ow," she said into his mouth.

Jace pulled back, but only just slightly, his hands still in her hair, his forehead still against hers, his mouth still only centimeters away. "I'm sorry," he said, his words ragged pants against her lips. "I'm being too rough."

Clary shook her head, stretched up on tip-toes, and wound her arms around his neck. "No, it's just the door—"

She didn't need to finish her sentence, because Jace immediately lifted her, guided her legs around his waist, and threw open the door. He carried her quickly down the hall toward her room, his face buried in her neck, her chest, anywhere he could reach to kiss, and lick, and suck. His elbows and her back bumped into walls and displaced photos hanging in the corridor. Clary held on to him, threw her head back, and couldn't help but laugh as his mouth tickled her skin.

It was a strange feeling: laughing. It seemed like it had been so long that she'd had anything to laugh about. In the last six months there had only been a few moments of peace and joy, and all of them had included this boy. Jace had been front and center, doing his best to give her whatever space, whatever comfort, whatever _anything_ she needed. And he had. He had given her everything. He still gave her everything.

Clary glanced down at him. He still had his face buried in her neck, but it didn't take much for her to nudge him back to meet her gaze. As he stared up at her, only glimpses of his confused expression visible as lightning flickered light over them, she realized this might be her best chance to show him she knew everything he was sacrificing for her. That she knew how much he loved her.

She placed her hands on his cheeks. The room exploded in light and faded to black once more, and it dawned on her how unfair she was being to him. He hadn't asked her for much—anything, really—but the one thing he seemed to need, she hadn't been willing to give him. Jace had opened himself up, filleted his heart on a platter for her, and had told her without an ounce of doubt that she was all he wanted, all he needed for the rest of his life. And she'd merely said thank you.

_Thank you. _

It wasn't enough. She _knew_ it wasn't enough. And she also knew, now, in the light of everything else happening around them, in the realization that this was it, the last night, the last moment, that she _could_ give him something to hold onto.

Thunder grumbled in the distance and rain pounded against the windowpane, but it wasn't enough to drown out the tremble in her voice. "What if I answer now? Would you be willing to wait for the rest?"

The room lit in intermittent bursts, and Jace continued to stare up at her, his mouth open a little and his brows pinched in confusion. Slowly, he lowered her to the ground, his hands still clutching her hips when her feet laid flat against the wood flooring.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

Clary swallowed. "If I answer . . . if I say yes now . . . would you be willing to wait a few more years, at least until I finish high school, for the rest?"

In the flickering light, Clary took in Jace's expression, the way he blinked as if he were waking from a dream, the way his mouth seemed permanently propped open in disbelief. "You don't have to say anything right now, Clary. I told you that. I know you don't want—"

"What if I _do_ want?"

His breath caught but was immediately drowned out by another clap of thunder. Clary stepped into him, her fingers tracing all the way up his side to the line of his shoulders, her eyes focused on the rise and fall of his chest. She could feel the tension in his muscles, the harsh exhale of his breath against her hair. She leaned in and kissed him just over his heart, her lips absorbing each thud it made against his ribs, and she knew this was where she wanted to be, where she needed to be. And what he needed was to have something to hold on to, a promise, a future, and that she could give him, she wanted to give him.

"What if I need?" she whispered.

"Yes," he said, his voice almost as low a rumble as the thunder outside. "Yes, I can wait. I can wait as long as you need me to."

"Ask me again."

Jace's hands rose to her face, his fingers trembling noticeably against her skin. He lifted until she looked up at him. The way he stared at her, the emotion caught in his eyes: disbelief, relief, love, was enough to bring tears to Clary's. Light danced across his features, and even though his broken shards—a life of disappointment and loneliness and years of being unloved—showed in every part of him, through the cracks, Clary could see the joy. And Jace filled with joy was more beautiful than anything she'd ever seen.

Jace lowered his face to her, his forehead resting against hers as his eyes closed. His mouth opened as if to speak, but the only thing that came out was a whispered, "Please."

_Please. _

Clary's throat squeezed. Jace's fingers stroked the sides of her face, his forehead still pressed against hers, his voice breathing the same word over and over and over again.

_Please._

Clary lifted herself up, wrapped her arms around his neck, and ever so slightly nodded. And it was as if everything in the room and outside froze. There was no more rain pounding on the glass, no more lightning breaking up the dark, no more thunder echoing through the sky. There was only them, his question, and her answer.

_Please._

_ Yes._

Jace's breath released audibly with a broken, almost desperate sound, and then his mouth was on hers. It was a clumsy, off-center kiss, but the way his breath cut off and shook, as if he were trying to hold back a sob, Clary thought it was the most perfect kiss in the world.

"Thank you," he said, between kisses to her mouth, her cheeks, her eyes. "Thank you." The words skimmed the planes of her skin as he whispered them over and over again: his gratitude, his love, his relief. And she breathed her own against him.

Their hands started to work, first touching slowly, lightly, just brushing over curves and dips, drawing invisible lines and promises into one another's flesh, and then they were pulling, grasping, digging. It felt almost as if this were the first time they'd ever touched: filled with the frantic kisses, clutching fingers, and ragged breaths of strangers discovering one another. Just the thought sent Clary's heart flying and her fingers tugging at his shirt. Jace responded by pulling it over his head and fisting the bottom of hers and yanking it off too. Within seconds, both shirts were crumpled into a pile on the floor, and then Clary was on her back on her bed, Jace's body hovering over hers, their mouths still fused as one.

Jace pulled back to look at her, his eyes gleaming even in the dark. The way they took her in made Clary tremble under him. He touched her lightly, just fingertips trailing down from her collarbone to the bulging curve of her stomach. She reached up to pull him back down to her, but he resisted, still tracing the curve of her with the softest pressure.

"Jace?" she said.

He shook his head, and she swore she felt something wet drip onto her chest.

She reached for him again, but he grabbed her hands and held them firmly against him. His heart was racing.

"Jace?" she said again.

"You want me," he said, his voice so quiet Clary could barely make out his words over the thunder. When another flash lit his features, she could see the disbelief in his eyes. "Forever. You really want me forever."

It made Clary ache to hear the incredulity in his voice, but she understood all too well why it was there. Pushing against his chest, she raised herself up to sit on her knees in front of him. She leaned forward and took his face in her hands, and this time it was her thumbs wiping his emotions away.

"I want you forever," she said.

Jace closed his eyes, some of the lines that had marred his features vanishing with her words. And then he was pulling her forward, her legs fitting perfectly astride his hips. When he took her mouth once more, it was gentle, careful, adoring. Clary could tell it wasn't because he was afraid to hurt her; it was because he wanted to savor her. He wanted to touch her, taste her, love her for as long a time as they were allowed, and she wanted to do the same to him.

Her hands fumbled with the snap on his jeans, and then she was on her back once more, her pants sliding along her legs and fluttering down to join the growing pile on the floor. When they'd both rid themselves of the rest of their clothes, Jace took her hand and helped her back up, leaning back onto his elbows as she slid once more into his lap. Her fingers traced the hard lines of his chest and stomach, lingering for just a moment along the light trail of hair under his navel.

She glanced up and met his gaze, her breath hitching when she saw exactly what she felt reflected back out at her: need, fear, desire. The urgency of their situation, the longing to delay and prolong forever if they could, was ever present, but both of them knew it was impossible. Tomorrow was going to come, no matter how much they both wished it wouldn't.

Jace ran his hand softly up her arm, her skin erupting in goosebumps the entire length, and then he beckoned her forward with a crook of his finger. "Come here, baby."

Clary leaned forward, bracing her hands alongside him as she went. His fingers threaded into her hair at the sides of her head, and he cradled her as if she were a fragile piece of spun glass, only exerting enough pressure to let her know that he needed her close but that she was more precious to him than anything else in the world. She shifted against him until she felt him right there, right where they both needed him to be, and then they were no longer separate.

Jace's eyes slipped shut and he let out a slow breath. Clary could hear him, taste him, feel him everywhere. And he held her right there: her face in his hands, their foreheads brushing with every movement, every rise and fall of her hips over his.

Clary knew how to play his body like her guitar, and he knew hers. And so they did, kissing, moving, touching, until it was not enough and too much all at the same time. It was easy to be with him, easier than anything else. They didn't speak and they didn't kiss, but they shared every breath.

Even though the clock in her room had stilled in the storm, the one ticking away the hours of the night still rung loud and clear in Clary's mind. It wasn't going to stop. It wasn't going to freeze just for them, just because they were two teenagers who needed each other more than air. It was going to keep going, keep pushing them closer and closer to the fate they didn't choose, to the one they couldn't control. But the parts they could—this part, the one that kept them sane, that kept them together, that kept them whole—was going to be theirs for as long as the night was dark.

.o.O.o.

Dozens of people swarmed the steps of the courthouse as the car Jace was riding in pulled up in front. Many of them carried large microphones or cameras, but others seemed to just be gawkers, waiting to get a look at the parties involved in the circus to come. Jace stared out the darkened windows, his fingers absently tugging at the tie around his neck. He still hated the God-damn things.

"What are they all doing here?" he asked, turning to face Stephen, who sat beside him in the back seat. "This isn't a murder case or anything."

Stephen sighed and nodded toward one group that was noticeably thicker than the others. A recognizable white head of hair shone out from the center. "I'll give you one guess."

Jace sighed and sat back into his seat, running his hand through his shorter hair. The strands stuck to his sweaty palms, and his heart pounded a steady rhythm against his ribs. "He's such an asshole. Clary's going to have to walk through that."

Stephen nodded. "Yes, well, Valentine Morgenstern has his own agenda and doesn't take anyone else's well being into consideration."

"But how could he do that to her? He's her father."

Stephen met Jace's gaze. "We both know that just because someone is a father, doesn't mean he's a good dad."

Jace looked away, ignoring the way his chest squeezed at Stephen's meaning. He coughed into his hand. "So what do I need to do?"

"Well," Stephen cleared his throat. "Try your best to be calm and unfettered by the activity out there. They're going to surround you, shout at you, and try to get you to answer their questions. But I don't want you to say a thing. I don't want you to even look at them—not yet. When we get out of the car, just keep your head up and focused on the building. Keep moving no matter what they do."

Jace nodded, wiping his palms against his pants.

Stephen put his hand on Jace's shoulder. "Try not to be nervous. This isn't the trial. This is basically a 'trial before the trial', and is also called an evidentiary hearing. It's only for the judge to hear the evidence gathered by the prosecution and to decide whether or not a trial is even necessary." He squeezed Jace's shoulder. "Today could be the end."

"And if it's not?" Jace said. "If it goes to trial? What then?"

"Why don't we worry about that if and when we need to, okay? Let's just focus on getting through this first."

Jace exhaled slowly once more and looked back out the window. Valentine Morgenstern was surrounded by hordes of media, smiling as he spoke with big gestures. His body exuded confidence. Jace was sure his palms weren't sweaty and that he didn't feel like he was going to hurl at any moment. No, he stood there proud and happy, like this was something he did every day, like it was something he'd been looking forward to.

And he probably was.

The dick.

A wave of anger washed over Jace. He remembered back to that morning, holding Clary's hair back as she vomited into the toilet after waking with another of her severe headaches. Her face had been so pale, her body so listless, and it had scared the shit out of Jace. He'd seen her sick; he'd seen her scared. But this felt like more. Worse. Yet, by the time Jace had to go, Clary had pulled herself together, cleaned up in the shower, and was waiting and willing to kiss his cheek goodbye when he'd left. It wasn't fair to put her through this, not ever, but especially not now. But Jace didn't have a choice, and, unfortunately, neither did she. Per the judge's orders, she was required to attend today.

Giving Stephen a short nod to let him know he was ready, Jace waited for him to step out of the car first and come around to Jace's side. The moment the reporters saw Stephen, they raced toward the vehicle, forming a tight circle around Jace's door, their shouted questions already filtering in through the window. Jace closed his eyes and counted to ten in his head. Each number was another breath, another pull of air flowing through him, calming him, cleansing him. When he felt like he could face it all, that he could keep the fear and panic off from his face, he reached for the handle and pushed the door open.

Sounds and lights exploded around him, but Jace did exactly as Stephen had told him. He stared straight ahead toward his destination, his heart flying against his ribs, and his head dizzying from all the commotion. Stephen's arm went around Jace's shoulder and guided him through the crowd, repeating the phrase "No comment" every few steps. In his peripheral, Jace spied Valentine Morgenstern near the outskirts of the mob. He looked very put together in his black suit, shirt, and tie, his pale hair combed and slicked back against his head.

Jace's nerves started to ping again, one by one until his entire body was buzzing with them. But it wasn't because of the people surrounding him, all the personal and blaming questions being hurled at him, or the fact that he might be told he had to go to trial, that his life could be very close to falling off the precipice it was dangling over. It was the smile plastered on Clary's father's face. It wasn't big or obnoxious, but it was confident and sure, knowing, like he was certain there was no chance in hell Jace would be walking out of there today with his future intact.

.o.O.o.

Clary's head pounded harder with every camera flash and shout of her name. It was like being stabbed in the temple over and over again with a knife. The sunglasses perched on her face helped some but not enough to really make much of a difference. Her mother stood on one side of her, her arm around Clary's waist, holding her against her body tightly. Isabelle, Sebastian, Annika, Jonathan, and Simon surrounded them both, deflecting reporters' microphones and cameras. She couldn't believe all of these people were there for them, especially considering this wasn't even the trial yet. She couldn't imagine what that would be like.

Her mother guided her up the steps, one by one, and even though there were less than twenty, her sluggish mind and muscles made it feel like hundreds. Her feet dragged along the concrete stairs and her stomach roiled. She begged her breakfast to stay put.

"This is insane," Simon said, thrusting his hand out to push away another microphone heading toward Clary's face.

"Remember that center-of-attention thing you've always hated?" Isabelle asked, and Clary looked up to see her friend flip off another reporter, before gazing back at her. "Well, looks like it likes you."

Clary groaned and leaned further into her mother. She wondered if Jace was already there, if her father was. She figured they were since Clary was a little late, but she hadn't seen a trace of them when her mother had pulled up.

"Are you okay, sweetheart?" her mother asked, as they crested the top step, her voice laced with concern. She'd returned home that morning to find a frantic Jace wiping the sweat off from her daughter's brow and holding her hair up into the air as she yacked for the sixth time that morning, so, understandably, she'd been a bit worried.

"Yeah." Clary exhaled slowly in hopes that the pain in her head would lessen. "I'm okay, Mom. Just nervous about all this."

Her mother stared at her skeptically, but Clary's worry about what else her mom might see in her eyes was all but extinguished when the doors to the courthouse opened and the hush of the building seemed to calm even the most aggressive reporter. Clary let her gaze flit over the grand, old architecture. Dark wood, carved with symbols of justice and liberty, lined the bottom half of every wall, while giant stone-looking pillars held up the massive archways leading to the hall that held the courtrooms.

The doors banged shut behind them, and, finally, silence overtook them. All that was left was the sound of them breathing and the clicks of the heels of their shoes along the tiled floors. A receptionist-looking woman sat behind a large, thick, bulletproof window, staring at them as if they had no business being anywhere near this place.

Clary wished she were right.

Her mother went up to the window to get the information on which courtroom the preliminary trial would be held in. She was only gone a moment before she was back, leading Clary to what felt like her execution, down the grand hall. As they walked, they passed courtroom after courtroom, some small, with only enough seating for twenty or so people, and some large, for those trials where many would come to watch.

Clary swallowed against the nausea churning in her stomach and the hammering in her head. Her mother stopped in front of a set of double doors near the end of the hall.

"This is it, sweetheart. Are you ready?"

Clary drew in a slow breath and removed the sunglasses from her face. She handed them to Isabelle, and met her friend's concerned stare.

"We'll be right out here the whole time," she said. "We won't leave." She grabbed Simon and Sebastian's hands and stepped back. Annika followed.

Clary nodded, so appreciative that hers and Jace's friends had come, even though they weren't allowed inside, and turned back toward the courtroom doors. She squared her shoulders, lifted her head, and took the hands both her mother and Jonathan offered.

"I'm ready," she said. And she closed her eyes one last time, the pain in her head slicing through her like an icepick to the skull, as her brother reached out to open the wooden doors.

.o.O.o.

The door to the courtroom closed with a loud click, and the constant droning that had been present in the room died out to silence. Jace looked up from the notepad filled with case facts that Stephen was going over and turned around. Clary stood in front of the doors, her mother holding one hand and her brother the other. His breath caught in his chest. Even Stephen inhaled sharply.

It wasn't because her presence was a surprise, but because she looked absolutely terrible. Her body appeared weak and limp, the hands holding her there obviously for more than just comfort. Her cheeks were sunken into her face, and her drooping eyes were shadowed with dark circles. She looked worse than she had that morning, and Jace's stomach dropped at the realization.

Jace stood from his seat and turned toward the door, but stopped when Stephen grabbed his arm. He glanced at his lawyer and frowned. Stephen shook his head and lifted his chin in the opposite direction. Movement caught Jace's eye, and his gaze moved toward it. Valentine Morgenstern strode to the back of the courtroom, his steps sure and arrogant, his face plastered with a fake smile. Jace felt sick and furious standing back watching it. His hands fisted at his sides.

"Easy, Jace," Stephen said.

Jace held back, but he watched Clary's face, saw the way her eyes narrowed and her jaw clenched as her father drew nearer.

"Clarissa," he said, his arms outstretched as if that was how he'd always greeted her.

Jace wanted nothing more than to hop over the barrier between them and beat his ass.

"Valentine," Clary said, her voice cold.

Jace saw her father's back stiffen.

"Now, Clarissa, is that any way to speak to your father? Where's your respect?"

She stared up at him, the tiredness and unhealthiness plain in her face, but it wasn't enough to hide the fire in her eyes. "I wasn't aware you deserved my respect, _Father_."

A wave of pride washed over Jace as he watched his girl, as sick as he knew she was, as exhausted, stand up to that man and not allow him to intimidate her. Because, God knew, he was trying to do just that. Jace could have kissed the ever-loving shit out of her right then.

Clary's mother moved from Clary's side to stand in front of her daughter, her gaze just as fierce. "Not now, Valentine. This isn't the place. Get out of our way."

Valentine leaned in, and, even though Jace couldn't see his face, he knew the man was sneering. "Don't perceive to tell me what to do and when to do it, especially when it comes to my own child, Jocelyn. You're lucky I haven't dragged you into court yet for the stunt you pulled, taking her out of my home without my permission."

Jocelyn didn't back down, and, instead, angled in closer to him, her eyes narrowed into slits. "Bring it on. I'm not afraid of you anymore."

"Do you really think you'd win over me, Jocey? That they'd choose an adulteress, runaway mother to raise an impressionable young girl? Especially a young girl who's also gotten herself into trouble and is having a child of her own? I sincerely doubt it."

"After this circus?" Jocelyn's hand swept out in front of her. "Yes, yes I do."

"This 'circus' as you call it, is for her. To right a wrong that was done to her by an irresponsible young man."

Jocelyn snorted in disbelief. "Don't lie to yourself, Valentine. You know damn well this whole thing has nothing to do with justice or righting any wrongs. It has to do with you and your continuous obsession with besting Michael Wayland. Nothing more, nothing less."

"Mom," Clary said, her voice lacking the strength it had earlier. She clutched at her mother's sleeve and tugged, but Jocelyn didn't move from her protective stance. She continued to stare up at Valentine, her body rigid and unforgiving.

Jace could see so much of Clary in her in that moment: the stubbornness, the fire, the strength.

"You've never been strong enough to fight me before, Jocelyn. What makes you think you can do it now?"

"Because I've finally realized that you are nothing more than a weak, sad, little man, Valentine, and I have nothing in the world to fear from you. Now, get the hell out of our way, so our daughter can take her seat. Can't you see she isn't feeling well?"

Valentine's head came up, and he finally looked at his daughter. After a moment, he stepped back and swept his arm out in front of him. Jonathan guided Clary forward, and Jocelyn brought up the rear. As she passed, Valentine grabbed her by the arm and pulled her into him.

"This isn't over," he said.

Jocelyn glanced up at him, her expression still fierce. "Of course it's not. It never is with you." She yanked her arm out of Valentine's grasp and followed her son and daughter up to the front of the courtroom.

Jace kept his eyes on Clary as she made her way toward him. When she finally got to the seats behind where he stood, she reached out for him and all but fell into his arms.

"Are you okay, baby?"

She shook her head into his chest. "I just want it over with."

He bent down, closed his eyes, and touched his lips to the top of her head. "It's almost over. I promise."

This time she nodded, and Jace pulled back to look at her. She seemed so tired, so incredibly tired. He held her face in his hands and bent down to kiss her. Her eyes fluttered closed as he leaned in and her breath came out in a sigh when their lips touched.

Jace kept his eyes closed when the kiss ended. "It's going to be okay. We're going to be okay," he said, but, at that point, he wasn't sure whether he said it for her or for himself.

"I'm holding you to that, you know?"

He grinned, opened his eyes to meet hers, and nodded in return. But before he could speak, the side door to the courtroom opened, and the bailiff called for order. Jace gave Clary one last kiss and let her go, the action much harder than he ever thought it would be, and turned toward the front of the room. Stephen squeezed his arm in quiet support, and Jace exhaled slowly, pushing out the fear and anger, the doubt and mistrust.

The judge swept into the room, his robe swishing around his feet as he climbed up to his seat. He was a stern-looking man, his brows pushed together and his mouth fixed into what looked like a permanent scowl, evidenced by the deep creases to the sides of his lips. Jace squeezed his hands into fists once more and tried to breathe through the tightening in his chest.

When the judge sat, Stephen motioned for Jace to sit too. He did, and his leg started to bounce under the table. Someone in the room started spouting off case numbers and other legal shit Jace couldn't hear over the pounding of his own heart. He swallowed hard and tried to focus on what was being said, but he couldn't concentrate on anything except the sweatiness of his palms and the bouncing of his leg. He wanted to look behind him, to get just one more glance of Clary's face, to let her calm him, center him, like she always did, but Stephen had warned him ahead of time to keep his eyes forward. It was torture knowing she was right there, his salvation was right there, and he couldn't even look at her.

When the person speaking up front quieted down, Jace saw, from the corner of his eye, the prosecutor stand, and he recognized him as Kaelie's father. Shit. He wanted to close his eyes, to disappear into a hole and cover himself up with feet upon feet of dirt. But he couldn't do that. Clary was counting on him. His son—though not aware enough to know it—was counting on him. He had to be the man of his family. He had to stand up for himself and them, and that was exactly why he was where he was now. There would be no hiding. No giving up. No letting himself be swept up in a feud he had nothing to do with. If this was the way it had to be, this was the way it would end.

Jace sat up straighter in his chair, his heart still pounding and his palms still sweating, but his expression fixed into one of determination and strength. He may have been breaking apart inside, but the prosecutor and Valentine Morgenstern would never know it.

There was a rustling of papers and the clearing of a throat to his right, but then Jace noticed the judge raise his hand in front of him. The rustling stopped and silence thicker than any he'd ever experienced blanketed the room.

The judge looked from Jace to the prosecution table and back. "Please take a seat, Mr. Meadows."

Jace looked over at Stephen, whose mouth was open, eyes staring straight ahead. He glanced over at the table opposite him and the prosecutor held an identical expression.

"Sir?" Mr. Meadows—the prosecutor—asked.

"Take a seat," the judge repeated.

Mr. Meadows stood there for several more seconds, his confusion evident, before clumsily sitting himself back down and scooting his chair forward with a grating screech. Jace slowly turned to look ahead once more. The judge sat forward in his seat, his hands folded together on the table in front of him, his eyes down, his brows still furrowed and his lips pinched. No one in the entire room moved, no one breathed, and they all waited to hear what the judge had to say. This was not how it was supposed to work, and Jace could feel his anxiety rising once more.

The judge slowly looked up, his gaze sweeping the room before he spoke. "The moment this file hit my desk, I knew it was going to be something different. I've seen many cases involving this same charge over my years on this bench, but never have I seen one with these . . . particular circumstances."

Jace swallowed and let himself look back at Clary. No matter what Stephen said, he needed to see her face. She was staring straight ahead, her fear unhidden in her expression. Their eyes met, and Jace couldn't help but let her see his too. He turned back around, his leg bouncing even harder under the table.

The judge continued. "To be very honest, this case should never have made it past the police chief's desk."

Jace's heart thudded so hard it hurt. What the hell did he just say?

"Statutory rape is a very serious charge that comes with very serious consequences when one is found to be guilty of it. It also has very clear, very specific guidelines attached to it. Except when it comes to two minors, which is where our justice system has always wavered on what to do in the past, and is where our situation lies now."

"Your honor." The prosecutor stood. "There has always been question of Mr. Wayland's age in the matter as his eighteenth birthday fell the day after the party at which the incident occurred."

The judge's gaze darted to the prosecutor's. "I'm well aware, but I'm also aware there is a witness that establishes a timeline."

"Sir, but—"

"But what? Are you denying this witness exists?"

"No, sir, but—"

"Then I do not see any reason for a 'but'. The moment a witness came out and verified Mr. Wayland was in no way with Miss Morgenstern after he turned eighteen, other factors should have come into play, factors which should have dropped any notion of bringing this case before the court. You have failed to do that. What is your reasoning for not addressing this in the manner it required?"

"Sir," the prosecutor started again, "the 'witness' is a friend of Mr. Wayland's. Her story could be a lie. She could just be covering for her friend. We had to at least consider that she may not have been being truthful. We couldn't use it as fact, and thus went forward with the case."

"Have you any evidence to present to discredit her, Mr. Meadows?"

"N-no, your honor, but—"

"Then _sit_ down."

The prosecutor hesitated for a moment and then slowly lowered himself to his seat again. Valentine leaned forward in his chair and whispered furiously in the man's ear. Mr. Meadows held up his hand to silence him.

"The law in this state clearly spells out," the judge said, his gaze intent on the prosecution. "That the victim must be below the age of consent, which is sixteen, and of course is valid in this case. However," he added, his stare turning to Jace this time. Jace held his breath. "In order for charges to be pressed, the perpetrator must be above the age of eighteen _and/or_ at least three years older than the victim. Even if the act happened after midnight the night in question, Mr. Wayland would not be guilty of statutory rape, as he is less than three years Miss Morgenstern's senior. For whatever reason, you decided this fact should not be addressed?"

Valentine Morgenstern burst out of his seat. "You cannot be serious. Is he serious?" Valentine turned to the prosecutor.

The man didn't answer as he frantically searched through his papers. Jace heard a quiet sob from behind him, but he couldn't turn, he couldn't move. His fingers dug into his leg. Stephen patted his hand lightly under the table.

"Sit down, Mr. Morgenstern," the judge warned. "Or I will hold you in contempt."

"But this is ludicrous!" he bellowed, then turned and pointed in Clary's direction. "Look at what he did to her! She's just a child! A child! He deserves to pay for what he did." His angry gaze narrowed at Jace.

"Do you want to know what I find ludicrous, Mr. Morgenstern?" the judge asked. "I find it ludicrous that a father would go to such lengths to see that the father of his grandchild be prosecuted unlawfully. Yes, _unlawfully. _If you and Mr. Meadows here hadn't been so gung-ho about getting a conviction, you would have looked a little closer to the amendment posted to this law several years ago, and wouldn't be caught so off guard by it."

Valentine's face fell.

"Do you not think the defense has done their job?" he continued. "Do you not think Mr. Herondale has worked just as hard or harder for his client as the prosecution did? Do you think I don't know about the law enforcement you strong-armed, the media you fed stories to, the university applications you interfered with? The way you made sure that this boy's name was dragged so long and so far through the mud that there was no way he could get it completely clean again? Do you think we don't all know about your petty squabble with his adoptive father?"

Clary's father clenched his jaw, but didn't speak.

"Your actions have been shameful, Mr. Morgenstern. But even though I knew of all these things you've done to Mr. Wayland, it wasn't until I received a letter from your daughter that I knew how truly, truly bad you were."

Jace whipped around and met Clary's gaze once more. She looked at him, her eyes gleaming with unshed tears. She'd never told him she was doing that, and it was probably a good thing, because he would have been against it. He hadn't wanted any more stress put on her shoulders, and that most certainly would have added some.

The judge cleared his throat and Jace turned back to the front. He held a piece of paper in his hand, and Jace recognized Clary's handwriting on the back of it.

"Would you like to know what clinched it for me, Mr. Morgenstern? What it was that made me realize that there wasn't something I was missing in this case, that there wasn't some other amendment that squashed the previous amendment and made prosecuting this boy relevant? It was your daughter's words. It was her begging me to look closer at this whole thing, reminding me of what this law was actually made to protect. And it was what she said about you . . ." the judge looked down and started to read.

"'_So what is this all about? What's it really about?_

_Well, simply put, it's about the fact that my father wants this to happen. I know he has influence over people. I know the kinds of things he says and does to get people to listen to him. I know he's unkind and demanding and scary. I know that because he's all those things to me, too.'"_

Jace glanced over at Valentine and watched as the man trembled in anger, his jaw locked, his hands fisted at his sides. But the judge did not stop there.

"'_He's chosen his vendetta (against Michael Wayland), his job, and his friends over me, my brother, and my mother many, many times._

_And I know that the only reason he's acting like he cares now is because I chose a Wayland. If this had been any other boy, any other, he would have treated it like he's treated everything else concerning me: he would have blamed me and called me out for ruining the family name. He would have called me a whore (not for the first time). He would have forced me to abort the baby (which he actually tried)._

_What he would not have done was bother with the boy who knocked me up. You see, my father doesn't care about the fact that being pregnant is hard and embarrassing for me. He doesn't care how people look at me or treat me or talk about me. He only cares about how this makes him look, when it's his reputation at stake. And especially when what I've done makes it look like a Wayland has harmed/gotten the upper hand over a Morgenstern.'"_

The judge set Clary's letter down on his desk, his eyes intent on it, as the silence in the room grew louder than Jace had ever experienced it. When the judge looked up, his eyes were no longer unfeeling and cold. They were angry, but they were also filled with regret.

"I know your influence stretches far and wide in this county, even in this state. And I will admit, that many in my office have fallen prey to your threats as well. But I won't be one of them. I would rather give up my seat, my livelihood, than to see you get what you want in this case." The judge pointed to Clary. "That is your daughter. _Your daughter_. Is she really not more important than your pride? Than an old feud over something you probably no longer care about?"

Valentine clenched his jaw impossibly tighter and the judge shook his head.

"Men like you do not deserve children, Mr. Morgenstern. And men like Mr. Wayland, who is doing everything in his power to be a responsible adult and father to your grandchild, don't deserve the treatment he's received. He doesn't deserve the ridicule and judgment he's received after trying to do his best in an impossible situation. And neither does your daughter." The judge's gaze moved to Jace. "I'm truly sorry that this has gone on as long as it has. If I had been further up on the chain of people this went through it wouldn't have gotten this far. I'm dismissing all charges on the basis that you fit into the guidelines set forth by the state, whereas your coupling does not violate any sort of law. But if I were you," he said, eyeing Jace and Stephen, "I'd put that lawyer to good use and see if Mr. Morgenstern can be brought up on any charges of his own." His gaze moved to Clary. "And you, young lady, are a fierce and wonderful girl, and are going to be a force to reckon with when it comes to that little one you're carrying. Please don't let this man who calls himself your father influence you to be anything other than that." He hit his gavel to the table in front of him and turned to make his way to the side door once more. "Case dismissed."

The echo of the gavel hitting the wooden table bounced around the room, overtaking the silence. No one moved for several seconds, until Jace turned his head to Stephen and met the man's blue eyes.

"It's over?" he said, the incredulousness thick in his voice. "It's really over?"

Stephen's face was just as shocked as Jace's. "Yes. It's over, son."

Noise erupted on the other side of the courtroom, with Valentine Morgenstern yelling at the prosecutor. Jace stood up abruptly and whipped around. Clary was still seated, her body curled over and her head in her hands. Jocelyn was bent into her, her hand on her back and her face buried in her neck, whispering in her ear.

Jace hopped over the partition and slid on his knees in front of her. She glanced up, her face covered in tears. Jace took her face in his hands.

"It's over, baby."

Clary closed her eyes and lunged forward, her arms around his neck and her face buried in his shoulder, her tears soaking through his suit jacket. But he didn't care. He closed his eyes too and held her tightly against him.

"It was you. It was all you. You made him listen. You made him question. You saved me," he said into her hair. "You saved me."

She shook her head, and her voice came out weak. "Can we leave now? I want to leave."

"Yeah. Let's get the hell out of here." Jace went to stand, to bring her up with him, but her legs buckled underneath her and her arms went slack. "Clary?" he asked, but she didn't answer.

"Clary?" he said again, pulling her back and peering at her. Her face was as pale as a sheet and her eyes were wide open, staring off into nothing. Jace's heart nearly pounded through his chest. "Clary?"

For several more seconds, she continued to stare into space, her expression vacant, her eyes glazed, but then something flickered inside them and fear filled her features.

"Jace," she said, her voice slightly slurred and shaky. "I can't . . . Something . . . My head . . . I don't . . ." And then her eyes rolled back into her head and she went slack in his arms.

"Clary!" he said, her name filled with the terror he felt building inside of him. He tried to pull her back to him, but then her body started to jerk so violently he could barely hold onto her.

"Put her on the floor!" her mother shouted, and Jace dropped to his knees, Jocelyn following him as Clary continued to thrash, her eyes rolled so far up, only white was visible. "Lay her on her side," Jocelyn continued, her voice shaking and her eyes filled with tears. "Jonathan, call an ambulance!"

Jace did as she said, keeping his arm under her head as she jerked and flailed, a horrifying choking sound coming from her throat. "What's happening?" he asked, looking up at Jocelyn's horrified face, his own probably holding the same expression.

"It's a seizure. But I don't know—"

"Ambulance will be here in five minutes," Jonathan said, joining them on the floor beside his sister.

Jace kept his hands on her, one on her upper back and the other cradling her head. Jocelyn did the same, only her hands holding her side and lower back, tears dripping from her eyes in streams. Fear and helplessness swallowed Jace up and imprisoned him down in their depths. He didn't know what to do, but he couldn't stand to do nothing, so he just held her.

Clary's movements started to slow, little by little, until they were gone completely. Her breathing was choppy and came out in a sort of wheeze. Her eyes still fluttered, only the whites showing, and her cheeks were bright red. Jace was aware of the bodies surrounding him, Stephen's hand on his back, the bailiff, the prosecutor, and even the judge surrounding them as they sat around her on the floor.

Valentine tried to push his way through the crowd, even going so far as to tug on Jace's shoulder.

Jace whipped his head up and glared at the man. "You put one finger on her and I'll break it off."

Valentine opened his mouth to protest, but Jocelyn spoke before he could.

"I'd listen if I were you, Valentine. This is his family now."

Jace met Clary's mother's eyes, and she gave him a small, though scared, smile. He wanted to thank her for saying that, for acknowledging it, but he couldn't speak over the fear in his throat.

Sirens blared in the distance, and Jace leaned back over Clary, touching his forehead to the side of her face. He could feel her labored breathing against his neck, her pulse racing against his palm.

"Come on, baby," he whispered. "Open those pretty eyes and let me know you're okay. Please. Just open your eyes."

But she didn't, she just continued to breathe in that hard, wheezing way, her body trembling and her chest rising and falling faster than Jace had ever seen it. He placed his hand on her stomach, but there was no movement there. A whole new wave of terror crashed into him.

"Clary, please. _Please_. Open your eyes." He turned his gaze to focus on Clary's belly, and pleaded with his unborn son, "Come on, buddy."

Still no response from Clary, but a small flicker of movement brushed against his fingers, and the relief that tiny response gave caused Jace to almost whimper as he turned his face back into Clary's.

The doors to the courtroom banged open and a couple of paramedics raced in, the stretcher noisily bumping across the floor. Jonathan and Jocelyn moved out of their way, but Jace stayed where he was, his muscles frozen, his hands holding her and his son with an iron grip.

"Come on, son," Stephen said softly in his ear. "You have to let her go now."

Jace shook his head.

"You have to for them to help her."

Stephen's hand closed hover Jace's and pried it away from Clary's body. He placed his other on Jace's shoulder and pulled him back and away, holding him against his chest. Jace was breathing almost as quickly as Clary, his muscles clenched so tight they ached. He couldn't believe this was happening. He was dreaming; he had to be dreaming.

The paramedics surrounded Clary, shouting to one another a lot of medical speak Jace didn't understand. One slipped an oxygen mask over her mouth, which Jace irrationally wanted to rip off because it was obscuring her face from him, while the other slapped a blood pressure cuff on her arm. They were all around her, moving, moving, moving, as if there were twenty of them instead of two, and everything was so loud, so chaotic. And then one of the paramedics was swearing and ripping the cuff off her arm, and they were both lifting her limp body off from the floor, her red hair hanging lifelessly beneath her. When they laid her on the stretcher, her hand flopped off the edge, and Jace could see the blue of her veins bright against the stark white of her skin. It wasn't supposed to be that blue. It had never been that blue.

Jace couldn't see her face, couldn't see anything but that hand, and he wanted nothing more than to take it in his, infuse it with his warmth, his color, his life, because he could feel her slipping. He didn't know how, but he could. When they started to wheel her away, Jace snapped out of the trance he'd felt like he'd been in and tried to fight his way after her, but Stephen held him back.

"Let me go!" he shoved against the hands holding him. "I have to go. I have to _go_!"

"I know," Stephen said, holding him tighter, despite how much Jace fought against it. "I'll take you to the hospital, but you need to stay back and let them work on her now."

The stretcher started moving toward the door.

"No! She needs me!"

"Yes," he said. "She needs you to let her go now." Jace shook his head and struggled, watching powerlessly as she got further and further away from him, but Stephen didn't let go. "You can't help her now, but they can. Listen to me, son."

Jace shook his head once more, wanting so much to push Stephen aside, to punch him right in the face so he'd let him go, but lessened his fighting anyway. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew Stephen was right. "Let me go," he said, his voice much weaker than before.

Slowly, Stephen loosened his hold but didn't let go. Jace didn't move from his spot on the floor. His eyes followed the movements of the paramedics, as if everything were moving in slow motion: their shoes on the tiled floor, their mouths shouting orders to one another and the surrounding people, Clary's mother following after them, her hands over her mouth and Jonathan glued to her side.

The doors to the courtroom swung open and the cart rolled out into the hall, Clary's hand still hanging off the side and her hair trailing behind like red silk ribbons in the wind. Simon, Isabelle, Sebastian, and Annika stood on the other side, their eyes wide and mouths open in horror.

Jace couldn't feel anything: not his heart, not Stephen's arms still around him, not the uncomfortable position he was still sitting in on the floor. Everything was numb; everything was surreal.

It _wasn't_ real. It couldn't be real.

He couldn't seem to grasp what had happened, what _was_ happening. And it wasn't until the doors closed with a loud, resounding click, the last fluttering strand of Clary's hair disappearing behind them, that he finally, truly did.

* * *

><p><em>*runs and hides*<em>

_Until next time, XOXO ddpjclaf_


	33. It Really Was All Worth It

**Chapter Thirty-Three - "It Really Was All Worth It"**

_**A HUGE, MASSIVE thanks to lightlacedwithbeauty and ktut for devouring this chapter and correcting all my weird sentences and comma mistakes and everything in between. I adore you both, and I adore how much you both adore these characters. Thank you for everything!_

_**PLEASE READ:**_

Wow. I can't believe this is over.

I know I said TWO more chapters and an epilogue, but I was wrong. This is it the last chapter, the end of all the main story conflicts—or rather, the end of all the ones that could be ended. Some will forever continue because that's just how life is, isn't it? Things aren't wrapped up neatly and tied with a bow in real life. Life is messy and hard and sometimes we don't have or get all the answers. Such is the way with my stories, be prepared. :)

Thank you all for sticking with me, for being patient when I left you with cliffys and did things to these characters that made you all want to kill me. Thank you for having faith that, somehow, I'd make it right.

I hope this makes it right.

* * *

><p><em>Chapter Songs:<em>

_Atlas – Coldplay (Scene 1)_

_This Woman's Work – Greg Laswell (Scene 2)_

_Run Away – Cary Brothers (Scene 3)_

_My Fault – Imagine Dragons (Scene 4)_

_In My Arms – Plumb (Scene 5)_

_Never Stop – SafetySuit (Scene 6)_

* * *

><p>Pain.<p>

Excruciating. Nauseating. Debilitating. Pain.

It was all Clary knew, all she could feel, all she could fathom. It seemed never-ending, like she'd be stuck in it for the rest of her life. Like it was her penance, her true karma, her destiny.

There was nothing else for her. No Jace with his arms around her, her name on his lips, his mouth to her head. No mother crying salty tears onto her face and clutching Clary's clothing so tightly it almost cut off circulation. No small crowd surrounding her, voices echoing everywhere, exasperating the already piercing agony in her head. No unborn son, squirming and kicking in shorter, more frantic movements than Clary was used to.

There was only the pain.

The only wish she had was for it to stop. At any cost, she didn't care what. _Just make it stop,_ she screamed inside her mind.

And then . . .

It was gone. Just gone. And she was floating. Not outside or above herself, but inside. It was the strangest feeling, knowing she was there, she was still there, but she wasn't all at the same time.

The voices that had once tortured her were nothing more than muted, garbled sounds, as if she were hearing them through several inches of thick wall. It was peaceful and painless, finally.

_Finally._

But then Clary noticed something else. The calmness that had taken her over was too calm. Much too calm. The numbness was too numb, and she started to realize that this was not normal; this was not the way she was supposed to feel. She'd spent so much time hurting and being sick that feeling nothing was almost worse. At least feeling those things meant she was okay, that her body was doing what it was suppose to be doing.

Feeling nothing was the exact opposite of good.

Panic started to overtake her. She tried to open her eyes, but they wouldn't stay. Light flitted in flashes across her vision as her lids fluttered with her effort. She attempted to raise her hand, wiggle her fingers, call out, anything. _Anything. _But there was still nothing.

Her body did not respond, did not belong to her anymore. She could feel everything happening to it: the jostling as she was lifted from the ground and placed on a hard, unsteady surface, the snap of elastic on her cheeks when a mask blowing cold, sterile air slipped over her mouth and nose, the pressure of something squeezing her arm almost to the point of pain. And then there was so much commotion: yelling and scrambling, frantic movements, and Jace's panicked voice near, but so far away at the same time.

She tried to call out again, to assure him that she was there, that she was _still _there. But his voice kept growing quieter and quieter, and she was moving quickly away. Far away.

Clary's heart slammed against her ribs and pressure started to build in her head again. Fear clawed at her throat and spread across her chest. LJ squirmed and jerked inside her stomach, and the thought of him, the feel of him, was all Clary clung to as the moving bed she was lying on came to an abrupt halt. More shouts, clangs and bangs, and the shuddering of the platform beneath her overwhelmed her senses.

And then the loud screech of metal on metal grated in her ears. Her body jerked and vibrated all over. A static voice over a radio crackled into the air and spouted off a bunch of directions. Clary had no clue what was happening, where she was, or where anyone else was.

Where was her mom?

Where was Jonathan?

Where was Jace? Especially Jace.

Sirens blared from somewhere above her, and the sound caused the growing pain in her temples to spike. She tried to groan at the pain, but her voice remained silent.

She couldn't groan.

She couldn't speak. Or cry. Or even move. All she could do was lie there. Lie there and let whatever was happening happen, because she wasn't in control anymore. Maybe she never had been.

She could feel herself racing toward something. Something that was not good, that had the potential to be very, very bad. Something neither she nor anyone else could stop.

The fate that she and Jace had been trying to deny, to overcome, to claim as their own, had her in its clutches now. And she could tell it wasn't about to let her go.

.o.O.o.

The silence in the car on the way to the hospital was thicker than any Jace had experienced before. The radio was off and neither he nor Stephen said a word. Jace was thankful Stephen wasn't trying to engage him, but it made the screams of the ambulance three vehicles ahead of them and the hiss of the tire treads gliding along the damp streets that much louder.

Jace kept his gaze focused on the blurring scenery outside the passenger side window, anything to not see the flashing red and blue lights in front of him. Leaning his forehead against the cool glass, he closed his eyes and tried to block out the sound. But behind his lids, the image of Clary's face, eyes rolled back into her head, clammy with cold sweat beaded on her forehead, red hair hanging lifelessly over the side of the gurney, was worse.

So much worse.

He clenched his lids tighter, fighting against the image, fighting against all of it. It was supposed to get better. After today, after the judge's verdict, it was supposed to be better . . .

Jace's hands gripped his thighs hard, his fingers digging into his pants and seemingly trying to tear through the flesh beneath. But nothing, not the tightness of his lids, not the painful hold on his legs, not the swish, swish, swish of the tires, took away the memory of how it felt to hold her twisting, jerking body. How his heart ground to a halt when she finally fell limp in his arms and it was all he could do to hold onto her. How her deathly pale face would stain his vision for longer than he could imagine. In that moment, he'd felt the closest he ever had to helpless.

He still did.

Jace had spent the majority of his life building up a wall of self-reliance, of independent importance, so he would never have to feel that way. But from the moment this girl walked into his life, she'd slowly and methodically torn down those walls with nothing but her bare hands. And then she'd held up his falling, broken soul with the same ones.

She'd reminded him what strength was, with her stubborn, determined personality.

She'd taught him that acceptance came from more than throwing the perfect pass or winning a crowd with his ability.

She'd shown him that love wasn't about what one could gain from another person, but from what one could _give_ back.

And she'd taught him that being weak, being vulnerable, being completely and totally helpless for another person, was not always a bad thing.

But this helplessness, this . . . inability to do anything at all to stop what was happening, was not anywhere near that type.

Jace opened his eyes and finally turned toward the flashing lights in front of him, and his chest clenched so hard it hurt. He could feel how time was slipping away, how everything was changing. How it already had.

The ambulance turned into the circle drive of the emergency room entrance, and Stephen followed behind. The car had barely come to a stop, and Jace was out of it, his feet hitting the wet pavement with a slap, his heart slamming against his ribs. Other cars pulled up behind him, but he didn't turn away from the back doors of the ambulance to take them in.

Both side doors to the vehicle flew open and the EMTs were out and around the back, already working to open the large doors, when Jace stopped a few feet away from them. A hand clutched his shoulder, holding him back and out of the way. He didn't fight it, though he wanted to, more than anything, he wanted to.

The doors opened, and Jace's breath caught in his throat.

Clary's mother and another EMT sat beside the small white bed, wires and tubes and machines surrounding the tiny, still figure lying on top. Clary wasn't moving; she barely looked like she was breathing.

Jace wasn't breathing either as the paramedics started to pull and maneuver the little bed, the metal rails screeching against the floor of the vehicle. Jocelyn climbed out of the back of the ambulance, her legs looking like they may not hold her, and her face covered in streaks of black.

Jace knew how she felt, because he felt exactly the same. But he couldn't show it. He wouldn't.

The medical workers rushed around, lowering the wheels on the gurney, shouting instructions and things like, " . . . seized again on the way here." They were rough, the bed jerking violently as they tugged and pulled at it, and Clary's head whipped from side-to-side, her hands slipping from the protective covers and hanging dangerously close to where the bed opened and retracted.

Jace wanted to yell at them to be careful, to be gentle with this thing he loved, this thing that was his whole world. But his voice stuck in his throat and his feet stayed glued to the ground. His gaze was intent on Clary's face, on the stark whiteness of her skin and the dark freckles adorning her cheeks. They were so much darker than they'd ever been. So much darker than they should ever be.

He could picture so clearly the first time he'd seen those light brown dots, the tiny imperfections that just made her more perfect to him. He could still feel the blades of grass against the back of his neck as he lay on the football field, his shoulder and back aching, his breathing constricted due to the pressure on his chest, and his fingers clenched involuntarily into the body on top of his. He'd coughed and muttered something about being thankful for his cup, and then he asked if she was okay.

And it was the catch of breath instead of a reply that made him open his eyes. It was somehow . . . familiar.

When Jace's lids split and he caught the first sight of her, the pain in his shoulder, the fans shouting his name, the screams and angry cries of the cheerleaders, had faded away, and there was only green. Wide green eyes positioned perfectly in a small, freckled face. Wild, red tendrils of hair that had pulled free from the ponytail at the back of her head hung all around a face he didn't recognize, but there was no mistaking the pang of _knowing _that washed over him anyway.

Jace knew this girl. Knew she blushed when her hair was tucked behind her ear. Knew she shivered when touched on the inside of her wrist. Knew she had a habit of pulling hair when she kissed. He knew her in a way that was intimate and private. A way he shouldn't, especially considering he had no God-damn idea who she was.

When she'd tried to pull away, Jace had tightened his grip on her back. And even there, just feeling her through the cheerleading uniform covering her body, it was as if his fingers remembered everything he couldn't: the curve of her waist, the dips and rises of her spine. They knew the perfect places to hold, where exactly they fit, and how much pressure to exert. It scared the hell out of him that they did.

And by the way she'd stared back at him, it was obvious that the shit was frightened out of her also, and she knew him and all his places too.

She still knew all his places.

The loud clattering of wheels against the pavement drew Jace's attention back to the scene in front of him. The EMTs were still frenzied, and Clary's mother was crying into Jonathan's chest. Her father stood several feet away, his jaw clenched but his face pale. Jace thought this was the first time he'd ever seen Clary's father look like he cared in the slightest.

But not even that slight showing of concern made Jace want to punch him any less.

The gurney started to move toward the building, the paramedics crowding around it and shouting for everyone else to enter through the ER waiting room doors. As they passed where Jace stood, he reached out toward the hand that hung slightly from the side of the bed. His fingers brushed over Clary's cold knuckles, and he was immediately taken back to the first time he could remember purposefully touching her.

It was astounding how, even though over six months had passed since they'd stood beside that bonfire, neither of them knowing how big, how . . . important all of this was, how life altering it was all going to be, Jace could still picture with absolute clarity how the glare of the nearby fire made her hair look as if it were alive and burning too. And how, when he'd held out his hand and introduced himself, even though her eyes had taken him in like he was a predator and she was his intended prey, determination had filled her gaze and she'd reached out anyway, placing her hand in his.

And it was at that moment, when her palm slid across Jace's, his flesh igniting in a way it never had before, that he'd known. He'd known she was meant to be his, and him hers. Because her touch wasn't a spark or a shock like every cliché romance describes, it was like . . . his skin, his whole body, his whole being, woke up from a very long, very unfulfilling sleep, and said, "Oh, there you are. You belong here. You belong right here."

Jace stretched his fingers as far as they would go, the strain aching in his joints and the spaces between his knuckles. He needed to touch her for as long as possible, to let her know he was still there, that he was waiting for her to open her eyes, to tell him she was okay, because he wasn't.

He wasn't okay.

The stretcher pulled away and Jace's hand lingered in the cool air, his fingers still reaching, grasping, still searching for one more touch. The further she got, the colder he felt. His insides were coated with ice and he couldn't breathe through the pain.

"Son," Stephen said, his voice bringing Jace's attention back. He turned to find Stephen staring at him with a look Jace didn't want to see: pity.

All the fear and anger building inside him filled every available space. He didn't want people to look at him that way, like the worst thing imaginable might happen. Was happening.

Jace shrugged Stephen's hand off from his shoulder. "Don't do that."

Stephen frowned. "Don't do what?"

"Don't look at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you feel sorry for me. Don't feel sorry for me." Jace took several steps back. "Don't feel sorry for her. Everything's going to be fine. She's going to be fine!"

"Jace . . ." Stephen took a few steps forward and held out his hand.

"No!" Jace said, swinging at Stephen's hand and moving back further. "No! Just stop. Stop!"

"Okay." Stephen held his hands up and nodded. "Okay."

"She's going to be fine," Jace said, his voice cracking on the last word, almost like he didn't believe his own declaration.

"Of course she is." Stephen said. "They both are."

A giant lump crowded in Jace's throat when he thought about Stephen's words.

_They both are. _

During the entire ride to the hospital, Jace hadn't thought of the baby once. He'd been so preoccupied, so worried about his girl, that he'd forgotten to worry about his little boy.

"Come on, man." An arm went around Jace's shoulder, and he turned to see Sebastian next to him. "We should go inside. It's starting to rain."

Jace lifted his face to the sky and closed his eyes when cool drops landed on his forehead and cheeks. Helpless desperation nearly crushed him under its weight, and he remembered another time he'd felt like this in the rain. Only that time, he'd had Clary in his arms, or rather, she'd had him in hers.

"Jace," Sebastian said, tugging on Jace's shoulders, and he could do nothing but give in. "Let's go."

Jace's feet carried him forward, but his mind was elsewhere, stuck in the past in the middle of a sopping wet cemetery, his life and everything else around him falling apart, except for the girl on his lap, who was desperately trying to hold him together. And she had, she did. She always did.

_. . . you're amazing and perfect and beautiful . . . _

She'd said to him that night in the cemetery, the rain drowning them and chilling them to the deepest parts of their souls, except the parts they held for each other.

_I need you. And I want everything else that comes with you._

He'd believed every word when she'd said them back then, and he still did. She still made him want to be strong, to be brave. And he was trying. He was trying so hard for her.

The doors to the emergency room waiting area whooshed open, and Jace was overcome by the smell of sterility. Of sickness. Of fear. Of grief.

And then there was the silence.

Jace was beginning to hate the silence most of all.

It was in those moments of stillness, where there was nothing but him and his thoughts and the God-damn looks of pity on everyone's faces, when his worst fears weighed him down the most.

He was so sick of being afraid. He was so sick of all of this shit.

Nurses and doctors moved in and out of the doors toward the back of the area, giving everyone in the waiting room peeks at what was going on just on the other side. With each opening and closing of the door, they were all afforded flashes of tubes and wires, and beds awash in white, blue, and red. Cries of pain and anguish and desperate shouts of instruction echoed in minute bursts through the air.

Dozens of people sat in the chairs scattered throughout the space with Jace, whispering and exchanging worried looks about their loved ones. But even with all of that, it was still so damn quiet. Everyone praying, everyone wishing. Everyone holding on by the thinnest thread, waiting for even the tiniest shred of news. Of hope.

Hope and fear were by far the thickest emotions choking the air.

Everyone from the courthouse was already there. Isabelle stood over by Clary's mother, gnawing at her thumbnail as she watched Jocelyn Morgenstern argue with one of the nurses. Jonathan stayed near his mother's side but was facing the opposite direction, glaring at his father, who was on the other side of the room, his hands in his pockets and his face drawn in resignation.

Sebastian and Stephen steered Jace toward a section of open seating and tried to get him to sit, but he shrugged them off. He needed to walk, to expel some of this anxious energy somehow. So he started to pace, one hand clutching his hair and the other shoved in his pocket.

This wasn't right. This wasn't how this was supposed to go.

Jocelyn's voice carried from across the room. "Don't tell me to calm down, that's my little girl in there!"

Jace closed his eyes, trying to block out the sound of Clary's mother falling apart and the nurse trying to calm her. He couldn't take it because he was fighting everything inside himself to stay together as it was. And so he let his mind wander, away from this place and the people all around him, back to happier times.

They flashed before his eyes like when someone was dying, as if he was seeing his life speed by on a silent film reel. They came in quick succession, one right after another. No break. No pause for breath. No time to consider the significance of each one, but knowing at the same time just how important they were.

The day he'd come upon Clary at the cemetery, when she'd painted a black hole onto the old graveyard wall and said it was her soul. When he'd told her they didn't have to be like their fathers, that they didn't have to hate each other. And she'd looked up at him with those green eyes, the ones that had snatched away his heart the first time he could remember looking into them, truth shining through the depths, and told him she didn't.

The time she'd pushed him into a dark corner to keep her brother from handing him his ass. When he'd admitted he couldn't stop thinking about her. When he said he wanted to know her. And when, later, he asked her how she felt, and she kissed him to show him.

The moments after they saw their son's heart beating for the very first time, when everything was overwhelming and scary and wrong, and she'd put her hand in his and made it all okay.

And when he'd said he loved her. The way her eyes widened and she kept having to hear it over and over and over again before she believed it. And then, after, when he hovered above her, their bodies bare and connected, her heart beating wildly against his, and she looked up at him with all the trust and love and need in the world.

All of those things, those memories, those promises, they were what were keeping Jace sane as he paced, as he worried, as he waited. They, and a thousand other memories of kisses and touches and words spoken and unspoken.

He needed more time. They needed more time. Time to know each other better. Time to know their son and to grow into being parents. Time to be all the things the other needed, because no one else could. Just time.

Jace drew out a slow breath, his hand squeezing the fistful of hair on his head even tighter, his eyes closed. He didn't know how much longer he could take this, how much longer he could go without knowing what was happening.

"Mr. and Mrs. Morgenstern?" a voice called out.

Jace's eyes flew open and he spun around. A nurse dressed in pink scrubs and holding a clipboard, stood near the doors to the side of the reception desk, her eyes scanning the room. Jocelyn turned toward her and lurched forward, Jonathan quick on her heels. Valentine started to cross the room but stopped abruptly when Jonathan flashed him a warning glare.

Jace stood back, wanting more than anything to go up there, to hear what she had to say straight from her mouth, but he didn't move. Somehow he knew he shouldn't, that he wasn't allowed. A warm hand closed over his and he glanced to his side in surprise. Isabelle stood beside him, her face turned up to his, skin pale and eyes red, and she squeezed his hand in solidarity. Jace swallowed the lump in his throat and squeezed back.

"Jace." He heard his name being called and glanced up in the direction it came from. Clary's mother was looking back at him, lines of exhaustion and worry etched into the skin around her eyes. She looked so much older than she had that morning. Lifting her hand, she gestured for him to come forward.

Jace's heart hammered in his chest as Isabelle gave his hand one more squeeze, and then he felt another on his back—Stephen—urging him forward.

"Go on, son," Stephen said.

Jace swallowed one more time and forced his feet forward. It was like dragging cinderblocks across the tile, aching and struggling, but finally, he made it to where Clary's mother and brother stood.

The nurse glanced between Jace and Clary's family, her brows pinched together in the center. "And Miss Morgenstern's father?" she asked.

"He won't be joining us," Jocelyn snapped.

Surprising to Jace, Valentine didn't utter a peep.

The nurse's gaze turned to Jace. "Are you a brother?"

Jace opened his mouth to answer, but Jocelyn did for him. "No," she said, stepping a little closer to him.

"Oh. I'm sorry, but only family is allowed back—"

"He's family," Jocelyn said, as she reached for Jace's hand, her fingers closing over his. They were tiny and warm, just like her daughter's. "He's the baby's father." She glanced up at him, her eyes gleaming with tears. "And my daughter's fiancé."

Jace's breath caught. Family. She'd called him family. Jace had never had a real family before. Obviously, this meant Clary had told her mother about her answer to his question. That surprised him, but in the best way possible.

"Oh . . . I didn't realize . . ." the nurse replied. "If you'll all just follow me." And with that, she turned and pushed through the doors leading to the chaotic space Jace had been getting glimpses of since they'd arrived.

Jocelyn pulled him forward, her arm latched through his, and Jace moved along robotically, looking back over his shoulder at the same time. Stephen, Sebastian, and Isabelle all stood together in a tight line, all of their face's lined with concern and fear. Valentine Morgenstern situated himself off to the side away from everyone else, his face drawn and defeated. Not the usual look of defiance and pride that was normally there. Jace let his gaze linger on Stephen, and before the door closed behind them, he saw Stephen's lips move.

_It's going to be okay. _

As Jace turned back to the nurse and followed her lead, he hoped to God Stephen was right.

The nurse led them past a dozen beds, each surrounded by blue and white curtains. Some were closed completely to shield the patient and give them a little privacy. But others, like the one they stopped in front of on the end, were open for all the world to see.

Jace's stomach roiled when his eyes fell on her. Clary lay as still as she had been before, her body so small and fragile looking there surrounded by all that blue and white. An oxygen mask was still situated over her nose and mouth, and her arms were loaded with tubes and wires and monitors. She had been changed into a hospital gown, which was pulled up to just under her chest. Her rounded stomach was bare, except for the patches stuck to her skin with more wires coming out of them and a light blue blanket covering her from under her belly and down.

She was so pale. So incredibly pale.

Jocelyn released Jace and rushed around to the side of the bed, snatching her daughter's hand and cupping it between both of hers.

"The doctor will be back in a few minutes," the nurse said as she pulled the curtain closed around them.

Jace felt the air shift behind him and the fabric brush across his back, but he didn't move. He couldn't. He was frozen in a state of shock and disbelief. This was not happening. It could not be happening.

The girl in the bed, the one who looked so small, so fragile, was not his strong, beautiful Clary. It couldn't be.

Clary's mother sniffled quietly in front of him, the beeps and whirrs of the machines drowning out any noise she may have made. Two heartbeats sounded simultaneously, one quick, but not too quick, the other so fast, so furious. Jonathan stood beside Jocelyn, his finger tracing the length of his sister's arm, while his other surrounded his mother.

Jace felt so completely out of place. Like he shouldn't be there. Like he was intruding on a moment he wasn't meant to intrude on. But his thoughts were buried when he felt the curtain stir behind him, and Dr. Penhallow walked in.

She glanced up at Jace and touched his arm lightly. "I'm sorry to have kept you all waiting," she said.

Clary's mother let go of her daughter's hand and wiped at her face, her eyes wide and focused on the doctor. "We've only been here a minute."

The doctor sighed and walked up to the head of the bed, fiddling with a few wires and quieting the heart monitors. When she turned back, her brows were furrowed and her mouth was drawn down at the corners. "There's no easy way to say this, so I'm just going to come out and say it." Her gaze lifted to Jace's, and he could see the seriousness behind her stare. "Clary is suffering from a pregnancy complication called Eclampsia."

"Oh, God," Jocelyn said, as her body sagged into Jonathan's.

Jace didn't move. He still couldn't. He didn't know what Eclampsia was, but from the way Clary's mother was reacting and how blank Dr. Penhallow's face was, he could tell it was really bad.

"Normally, we're able to detect signs of this disease early on—something we diagnose as Pre-Eclampsia. But Clary didn't have the markers needed to make her condition definitive," Dr. Penhallow said. "During her last visit, she was complaining of recently being sick: stomach pain, headache, fever. And her blood pressure was slightly elevated. I checked her urine output for proteins —which is mandatory in any situation including elevated blood pressure in a pregnant patient—but Clary's urine was clean." She paused. "Please understand that the only way I can diagnose a patient with Pre-Eclampsia is if the blood pressure is high _and_ there is protein in the urine. Otherwise, the high pressure can and will be attributed to stress, illness, or simply called pregnancy induced hypertension. Clary's recent illness and the stress surrounding her entire situation made sense and didn't give cause to any more worry than normal. Pre-Eclampsia is dangerous, but treatable. I wish there would have been more to go on at the time, so it could have been diagnosed earlier."

"So," Jonathan said, the word dragging as if he were trying to understand something unfathomable. "You're saying you should have caught it."

"No, I'm saying there really wasn't anything to catch. It's rare, but sometimes Pre-Eclampsia and Eclampsia act this way. I cannot diagnose a patient without both markers, because, like I said, it can be a number of other things or nothing at all without them. Each thing bears its own treatment strategy."

Jace's head was spinning. He had no God-damn clue what the hell was going on. What did all this mean? For Clary? For the baby? He wanted to ask, needed the answers, but he couldn't open his damn mouth.

"What now?" Jocelyn asked, her gaze slipping from the doctor to her daughter.

"Well, we've started her on medication to stop the seizures and to lower her blood pressure. And we've also given her steroids to help mature the baby's lungs."

"Why?" Jace finally found his voice, but it was not strong and it was not steady. "Why do you need to mature his lungs?"

She glanced up at him, and Jace could almost feel the apology in her gaze. "Once Pre-Eclampsia has escalated to full blown Eclampsia, both mother and baby are in grave danger, and the only way to remove that is to deliver the baby."

Jace swayed forward and caught himself on the rail of the bed. His hands clutched it so hard, his bones hurt. "But . . . but he's too young. Right?" He looked over at Jocelyn, whose face was fixed in an expression of horror, and back to the doctor, begging them with his eyes to correct him, to tell him he wasn't wrong. "He's too little."

Dr. Penhallow set her chart down and moved over to stand in front of Jace. She did not reach out for him, didn't try to touch him at all. "We have an excellent neo-natal unit here—"

Jace recoiled at her words. "No. You just—no!"

"Jace, we don't have a choice."

He shook his head and swallowed hard. "But he's too small," he lifted his gaze to the protruding lump in Clary's stomach and whispered, "He's too small."

"He has a very good chance at twenty-eight and a half weeks. A very good chance."

Jace glared at the doctor. "A very good chance is not good enough!"

This time, she did touch him, her hand warm on his arm and her eyes sympathetic. "I know, but it's all we've got. We have no options left. Once Clary's blood pressure drops enough for it to be safe, we have to deliver the baby. Tonight."

Jace's entire world came crashing down all around him, right then, right there in the middle of the hospital emergency room. All of their plans and promises and hopes, disappearing into the mist, like everything else in their life had.

Jace's knees hit the hard tiled floor and his head fell into his hands. He was aware of arms going around him, arms that were familiar but not the ones he wanted. Sobs from Clary's mother sounded in his ear—sobs that matched the ones caught in his own chest. But he didn't let them out. He didn't let anything out, because, in that moment, he had no strength left to release anything.

.o.O.o.

It was cold. Really cold.

Clary struggled to open her eyes, but when she did a bright white light blinded her. She squinted and blinked against it, trying to get her bearings. Beeps, the clinking of metal on metal, and a constant hiss met her confused ears. Tight elastic straps dug into her cheeks and cold, strange smelling air blew over her face.

She tried to reach up to remove whatever it was over her nose and mouth, but she couldn't move her arms. Something large and rough scratched against her wrists each time she tried to lift her hand.

Clary blinked a few more times and, slowly, her surroundings came into focus. Hanging above her was a large light with three bulbs. A giant blue sheet was pulled up just under her chin and attached to a wire that stretched up above her with clips, ensuring she couldn't see anything but what lay directly above her and to the sides. She glanced to one side and spotted several machines: a heart monitor, an IV pole and bag, and another large machine she had no idea about. Her eyes dropped and she saw that her hands had been strapped to two small tables that jutted from the larger one she lay on, making her feel like Jesus on the cross. A blood pressure cuff was strapped around her bicep, a pulse monitor clamped on her pointer finger, and an IV was embedded in her arm just under the bend of her elbow.

Clary's breath started to come in short, rapid bursts as panic built up inside of her. She didn't understand what was happening. The last thing she remembered was being in the courtroom, hearing the judge's verdict, and then . . . nothing, just bits and pieces of sounds and sensations that made no sense in her head.

The monitors next to where she lay went insane, beeping and screaming out their warnings. Suddenly, a face appeared around the side of the sheet, and even though she could only make out the eyes beneath the light blue cap and the mask that covered her mouth, Clary recognized Dr. Penhallow immediately.

And then she started to cry, because she knew exactly what this meant.

"Shh, Clary. It's okay. You're okay," she said.

"Wh—what's go—going o—on?" Clary stuttered through her sobs. "W—why am I h—here?"

Another woman dressed in scrubs came up to the doctor and leaned in. "We're ready to begin, doctor."

Clary's breath quickened and more tears fell over her cheeks. She could hear her own hiccupped sobs, but couldn't seem to control them no matter how hard she tried.

Doctor Penhallow nodded and focused back on Clary. Her large, dark eyes were sincere as she spoke. "You've had a very serious pregnancy complication called Eclampsia. You were brought here by ambulance after you had a seizure and collapsed."

Clary blinked away the tears in her eyes and tried to remember, but none of that sounded familiar at all. She still couldn't recall anything past the judge's final words no matter how hard she tried.

"W—why am I stra—strapped d—down?" she said, her teeth involuntarily chattered against each other. "Wh—where's my m—mom? Wh—where's J—Jace?" The monitor started to beep loudly again.

Doctor Penhallow's eyes softened more still. "Sweetheart . . ." she began, cleared her throat and started again. "Clary, I need you to try and calm down. I'll tell you what's happening, but you have to promise to try not to panic, okay?"

Clary swallowed against the lump lodged in her throat and nodded. She held her breath for a moment, and then took several slower, deeper breaths. The monitor quieted, and her pulse seemed less loud in her ears.

"When you came in today, your blood pressure was extremely high, which coupled with several other factors, led to the seizures and blacking out. This condition is highly dangerous to both you and the baby. Life threatening. And in order to fix this . . ." she paused. "In order to stop this we must deliver the baby now."

Clary started to shake and the machine's started up again. "No," she said. "No. He's not ready yet. He's not ready—"

"Clary," Dr. Penhallow said, leaning in closer. "I need you to listen to me."

Clary nodded, her breaths coming faster and faster.

"We have no choice. It's no longer safe for him in there. It's no longer safe for you. If we leave him, it's very likely both of you will die. Do you understand that?"

Tears fell over her cheeks. "Y—yes."

"We will do our absolute best for both of you. I promise you that."

Clary nodded again. "J—Jace? Does he . . . wh—where is he?"

"Jace knows, and he's in the waiting room with your family and friends."

"H—he sh—should be h—here. He sh—should be—"

"I'm sorry, sweetheart, but due to a few complications, we're going to need to put you under for the surgery. We can't have anyone but the medical team in the operating room during delivery."

Clary's eyes stung. "P—please? P—please c—can I ju—just s—see him then? Pl—please. For a mi—minute?"

Doctor Penhallow looked torn.

"Please," Clary said, fighting with her voice to keep it steady. "Please. I just . . . I need him."

The doctor stared at Clary for several long seconds, and then let out a slow breath, turning her head toward the space Clary couldn't see. "Janice," she said. "Could you please go fetch Mr. Wayland? Have him dress quickly, as we must begin in the next ten minutes."

"Yes, Doctor." Clary heard a voice say, and then she watched a woman in pink scrubs exit out the door to her left.

Clary closed her eyes, feeling her remaining tears fall hot and fast over her cheeks. The panic in her chest lessened somewhat and her breathing started to steady. Just knowing she was going to get a chance to see him, to talk to him, maybe even touch him—even if it was only for a moment—made her courage rise exponentially. Throughout this whole thing they'd done this together—aside from finding out about the actual pregnancy, which she'd done alone—but from that point on he'd been with her the entire way. It felt wrong to do this without him. That hadn't been their plan, but, as she knew, their plans rarely went the way they wanted them to.

Clary knew that now was the time she had no choice but to go through this alone, but she still needed him now. Just now. Just for a moment, because as much as she knew she had to be strong, she couldn't seem to get there on her own.

It seemed like forever that she lay there, looking up at the stark white ceiling and listening to the beeps and whirrs and hisses of the machinery around her, until the door opened and the nurse who'd left to find Jace entered once more. Clary twisted her head toward the sound of the opening door and there he was.

He was covered from head to toe in green: his shoes, his legs, his chest, his face and hair, everything. Only his eyes were visible above the mask and below the cap, but that was all Clary needed. Jace hesitated in the doorway for just a moment, his gaze widening as it took in everything in front of him, and then it fell to Clary's. Her sight blurred out as her eyes filled with tears once more.

Jace crossed the room and by the time Clary had her vision cleared he was there, his hand on her face, his forehead against hers.

"Oh God, baby, you scared the shit out of me," he said, his voice rough and shaky.

"I'm sorry," she said, lifting her arm to hold him, but whimpering as it caught on the restraints once more. Cold, glove-covered fingers touched her wrist and with a tug and a loud pull of velcro, her hand was free, and she immediately brought it up to him, her fingers spreading across the warm expanse of the back of his neck. And it was like being home, just that one touch, that one connection to him. "I'm so sorry."

"Stop," he said. "You have nothing to be sorry for. Just . . ." He pulled back slightly, his eyes so gold they were almost blinding. "Just be okay. Please? Just be okay."

Clary nodded, more tears staining her cheeks. "I'm scared."

Jace closed his eyes, touching his forehead to hers once more. "Me too."

"Clary?" Dr. Penhallow's voice reached her. "We need to get started."

Clary clenched her eyes shut and tightened her grip on Jace's neck, pulling him down so she could whisper in his ear, the soft strands of his hair slipping between her fingers. "Take care of him, okay? No matter what happens, take care of him."

"Clary, nothing's going to—"

"Just promise me you will," she said.

Jace lifted his face and peered down at her. He reached up and pulled the mask from his mouth, and Clary couldn't mistake the way he was holding back. The emotion in his eyes screamed out at her. "You know I will."

"Promise me," she whispered.

"I promise." And then he reached up and removed her mask from her mouth, too, and dipped down, touching his lips to hers, so soft and hesitant, before replacing her mask once more. "I love you so much. You know that, right?"

"I know," she said, her voice shaky.

"Jace, Clary," Dr. Penhallow said. And the way she said it had a note of finality to it. This was it.

Jace pulled his mask back up over his mouth and glanced up at the doctor. "Can I just stay until she falls asleep?"

The doctor hesitated, and Clary glanced over at her too. "Please?"

"Very well," Dr. Penhallow conceded.

Jace took Clary's hand from around his neck and grasped it between both of his. He lifted it to his cloth-covered mouth, and even though he wasn't touching her skin, she could feel his kiss through it. "It's gonna be okay," he said, his voice shaking and betraying his insecurity.

"Jace," Clary said, as she stared up at him, watching as his eyes darted from one of hers to the other, the fear, the worry, the anticipation of everything waging war inside of them. Identical to what she was sure he saw in hers. "It really was all worth it, you know."

"I know, baby," he said. "I know."

Another doctor stepped up beside her and lifted her mask from her face, but Clary did not remove her gaze from Jace's. Not when the doctor placed another, larger mask attached to a tube over her mouth, and not when he asked her to count down from ten. She did as he asked, but as she did, she watched Jace. She didn't look at what was happening around her, didn't focus on the sounds and smells and the feel of something cool and wet being rubbed over her stomach, didn't let herself think about what the clattering metal meant. She just stared into his eyes as he stared into hers, and let it all fall away: the fear, the uncertainty, everything. And as the black tinge around her vision grew thicker and thicker, it was into their golden depths that she fell, when the world went dark around her.

.o.O.o.

The minute hand on the clock moved so slow.

So God-damn slow.

Jace found himself looking up at it every thirty seconds, swearing it should have jumped ahead at least two hours each time.

He sat on the floor, his back pressed up against the wall next to the row of seats everyone else had taken to waiting in. He just couldn't find it in himself to get comfortable when Clary was where she was, doing what she was doing. It seemed . . . wrong, somehow.

Staring down at his knees, Jace focused on a loose thread in the hem of the green scrubs he still wore from when he'd gone into the operating room to see Clary. He hadn't removed them because they'd told him they'd come to get him once it was over.

Once his son was born.

_His son._

_Born._

Jace lowered his head to his knees and took in a deep breath. He just couldn't reconcile himself with what was happening. It wasn't so long ago that his life had been all about football and popularity and colleges, not pregnant girlfriends and lawsuits and impending fatherhood. And it wasn't so long ago that Clary was an innocent girl, concerned with nothing but normal school-age drama and cheerleading.

It wasn't right, what was happening to either of them. It wasn't right that he was here in this place in his life, and she was here in hers. It wasn't right that everything that had changed, every horrible thing that had transpired, were all consequences of one foolish night and an aptly placed door. And it definitely wasn't right that, while he was sitting on his ass in the waiting room with everyone else, his sixteen-year-old girlfriend was, at that very second, lying on an operating table being _cut open_ to give birth to his son.

The thought of that made it next to impossible to breathe.

Every time Jace closed his eyes he saw her in there. He'd tried to prepare himself before he went in, but he wasn't sure anything could have readied him properly for that. Not the cold, sterile atmosphere. Not the machines that blared out at him from the moment he'd entered the room. Not the fear in Clary's eyes when she'd looked up at him, helpless and alone in that bed, her hands strapped down like she was a sacrifice being offered up to the gods, her stomach bared and bulging through the center of a blue cloth.

Jace thought he'd felt helpless before, but this was more. This was . . . helpless and _guilty_. He'd immediately felt that culpability again, the one from the very beginning that reminded him he was the one who'd put her there. That it was all his fault.

If anything happened to either of them, it was his fault.

And in that moment he'd wished, just for the slightest second, that she'd never crossed his path. Not for him, not because things may have been easier for him—because he knew now that with his father, they wouldn't have—but for her. Without him in her life, she wouldn't have been there now, having to do this thing she shouldn't have had to do for years, if ever if she chose.

She could have had more choices. She could have had more time to be young and silly and free. Now, she was out of time.

Now she was going to be a mother.

And being a mother meant she could no longer be a silly little girl. She could no longer be free to make decisions based solely on what she wanted. She could no longer afford the irresponsibility of youth, or to make the mistakes every teenager needed to make to grow and learn and become better adults. She had to be more now. More mature. More level-headed. More selfless. Just . . . more.

And so did Jace. This was about more than them now.

The outer door to the emergency room slid open, and Jace lifted his head automatically, spying Nana's white hair as she stepped into the room. Behind her, Stephen's wife Amatis made her way inside, and after her: Sam.

The little boy's eyes scanned the entire room, before freezing on Jace. When they did, they widened slightly and a smile started to pull at his mouth. But, as if he knew it was inappropriate to smile at the moment, he screwed his face into a serious expression and started across the room.

Jace watched him approach. Warmth grew in his chest and stomach at the sight of Sam's little blond head and the way he struggled to control his features.

When Sam reached him, he peered down, and Jace looked up at him. Neither of them said a word, and after a minute, Sam reached down and removed Jace's hands from his knees, turned, and fitted his tiny body between Jace's legs and wrapped his arms back around them both.

Sam was warm and small and smelled of grape chewing gum. It startled Jace to have this boy seem so comfortable, so at home with him, when Jace had barely gotten to know him yet. But it felt good. It felt right.

Twisting around a bit, Sam glanced up, his blue eyes meeting Jace's gold. "Are you a daddy yet?"

Jace's throat squeezed, not only at the prospect of what Sam was asking, but that he was asking at all. That he honestly cared. "I don't know, buddy."

Sam nodded his head and turned back around, directing Jace's arms to squeeze him tighter. "Well, I think you will be soon, and I'm so excited. I can't wait to be an uncle."

Jace nearly choked on the emotion working its way up from his chest. Resting his forehead on the crown of Sam's head, Jace held his little brother in a way he never thought he would. The boy didn't squirm and didn't complain, like he knew this was what Jace needed, like he knew nothing else would do.

"Are you scared?" Sam's little voice rang out.

"Yeah," Jace whispered.

"How come?"

"Because . . ." Jace paused, thinking of all the reasons why, but the most important weighed heaviest on his tongue. "Because the man who raised me wasn't a very good dad, and I'm afraid I won't know how to be better."

Sam grasped Jace's wrists and rested his chin on top of his hands. "I think you're gonna be a good daddy."

"You do?" Jace said, his breath displacing the boy's hair. "Why?"

"Because you hug good. Daddies always hug good."

Jace closed his eyes and hoped Sam was right. A hand came down on his head, swiping carefully, lovingly across his hair. When he looked up, Stephen offered in a small smile, and Jace thought maybe, _maybe_, he could give this man a chance. Give this family a chance.

The door near the back of the room opened and the nurse in pink scrubs from Clary's operating room stepped out. Her face was set into an expression that leant nothing toward knowing how anything went. "Mr. and Mrs. Morgenstern?"

A knot formed in Jace's stomach as Clary's parents and brother stood. Her mother rushed over to the nurse, and her dad and brother followed behind. The nurse started to talk in hushed tones, her face serious, but still not giving anything away. Clary's mother let out a gasp and covered her mouth with her hand, tears streaming over her cheeks.

Jace's heart pounded against his ribs. He untangled himself from Sam and stood. That helpless feeling returned as he watched Clary's mother grip Jonathan's arm so tight Jace could almost feel it from there. The nurse continued to speak, and as Jace watched, he could make out the words "excessive bleeding" and "transfusions" on her lips.

He slumped back against the wall, and Stephen's arm came up around him, keeping him upright, holding him together. "It's all right, Jace. It's all right."

Jace shook his head. It didn't feel all right. Nothing felt all right.

The nurse finished her conversation with Clary's parents and exited back into the doors she'd come out of, leaving them standing there, their mouths agape and bodies sagging. After several torturous moments, Clary's mother turned, her reddened eyes finding Jace's instantly. With tears still falling over her cheeks, she started toward him.

And Jace couldn't breathe.

Jocelyn stopped right in front of him and, without saying another word, reached out and pulled him into her, burying her face into his shoulder. "She's okay," she said, and the words were muffled against his shirt. "They had a few issues during surgery, which is why it took so long, but she's okay."

The weight of a thousand worlds lifted from Jace's chest and he exhaled loudly, lowering his head to Jocelyn's shoulder and wrapping her up in his arms. "She's really going to be okay?"

Jocelyn nodded against him before pulling away and cupping his face in her hands. "She really is."

Jace wanted to smile, to laugh with the pure joy he felt, but something held him back, something he didn't know yet. "But . . ." he started, afraid to ask the next question, though he knew he had to. "But what about—"

"Mr. Wayland?" a voice called.

Jace's head snapped up in the direction of it, and his eyes landed on yet another nurse, this one dressed in scrubs that were covered in teddy bears. He swallowed hard. "Yeah? That's . . . that's me."

The nurse looked over at him and smiled, before starting across the room toward him. When she reached where he stood, she stopped right in front of him. "Do you have an I.D. with you?"

"Uh . . . what?"

"I.D.? A driver's license or something else to prove you are who you say you are?" Her voice was soft, pleasant, even though her questions were stern.

"Oh, um, yes?" Jace fumbled to get into the pocket of his slacks beneath the scrubs, his fingers trembling and making it more difficult. After a few failed attempts, he finally pulled his wallet from his pants, flipped it open, and dragged his license from behind the protective plastic.

The nurse took it and jotted a few things down on the clipboard she held, then handed it back to him. Jace shoved it in his pocket, and then the nurse said, "May I have your hand please?"

Jace had no damn idea what she wanted his hand for, but he gave it to her anyway. Without another word, she swiped a soft, wet pad against his thumb, coating it with black, and then pressed his thumb to a small box located on the bottom of the paper on her clipboard. Afterward, she handed him a wet wipe, and continued to write things on the paper.

Jace wiped his finger off, tossing the wipe in a trashcan near to where he stood. He was confused and, to be honest, a bit dazed. He had no idea what the nurse was doing or why.

"Okay," she said, finally glancing up at him once more. Grinning, she removed a long, plastic thing from under the clip on her board, grabbed his hand, and fastened it to his wrist. On it was a printed barcode, a patient number, and a name: Baby Morgenstern.

Jace couldn't swallow against the lump in his throat, the words blurring in front of his eyes. He couldn't seem to wrap his mind around what he was seeing.

Baby Morgenstern.

_Baby._

"Are you ready?" the nurse asked.

Jace glanced up and blinked. "Ready for what?"

The nurse smiled again. "To meet your son."

.o.O.o.

The NICU was nothing like Jace had imagined. He didn't know what he'd expected. Babies, yes. Tiny babies, yes. But not all the machines and noises and wires he could see through the window.

"Okay, Jace," the nurse who'd come to get him said. "Let's get you cleaned up." She gestured to a long sink with several different faucets on the opposite wall. "Wash well three times. We have some very sick babies in here and wouldn't want to risk bringing any germs in with us."

Jace didn't speak, but stepped up beside her and did as she directed. His hands were shaking, despite the warmth of the water. He felt so beyond the scope of everything, like he was floating outside of himself watching, not really being there in the moment.

Once he had washed the appropriate amount of times and dried his hands off, he turned to the nurse, and she was watching him carefully. He felt as though she were dissecting him.

"Ready?" she asked.

Jace's eyes flickered to the window, to the clear, coffin-looking cubicles lining the room, to the tiny bodies housed inside and attached to more wires and tubes. He shuddered.

His son was one of those tiny bodies.

"I don't know," he said, his voice quiet.

The nurse's expression softened. "I know it can be overwhelming. They seem so small, so . . . fragile. And they are. But they're also so much stronger than we think." She led Jace to the window and pointed to the contraption closest to the window. "This little girl was born at twenty-five weeks, weighing barely over a pound. Her prognosis was not good, wasn't expected to survive the night." She glanced up at Jace. "She just turned thirty weeks yesterday, is up to just over five pounds, and is expected to be able to go home in about six more weeks."

Jace let his eyes travel over the tiny little girl. She looked like a normal baby, albeit a little small, to him. She didn't look sick, didn't look like she needed all those wires at all.

"This one," the nurse said, pointing to a much bigger boy in the next bed. "He was born at twenty-three weeks, under a pound." She smiled. "He gets to go home tomorrow." The nurse moved to the next bed and stopped, a slow smile spreading across her lips. "And this one . . . this one is yours."

Jace's heart stopped, as he gazed down into the clear, covered bed. The creature inside was so small, so much smaller than he'd anticipated. Tubes and wires hung everywhere. Sticky patches were stuck to the red, wrinkled skin on his chest and stomach, lines led from them out to beeping machines, and a mask-like contraption covered his mouth and nose. A thin layer of light hair covered the top of his head, and even though he was skinny and wrinkly and Jace could barely make out any of his features, he was the most beautiful thing Jace had ever seen.

Jace's breath caught and his throat tightened, but he managed to force his words out anyway. "Is . . . Is he . . . Is he . . .?"

"He's wonderful," the nurse said, smiling once more. "He's very small and very early, but he's strong. He's so strong, requiring only a small bit of oxygen and the incubator as he is having trouble keeping his body temperature up. It's quite remarkable for one as little as him, weighing in at just under three pounds. He's perfectly healthy."

The rest of the questions Jace had choked in his throat, and he raised his hand as if to touch, but let it hang there in the air instead. He couldn't believe this little boy was his. _His._ His son.

"Would you like to hold him?" the nurse asked.

Jace whipped his head in her direction. "What?" he asked, unsure he'd heard her correctly.

"Would you like to hold him?" she repeated.

Jace looked back through the window, eyeing all the wires and monitors and feeling a surge of uncertainty well up inside of him. But he wanted to. More than anything, he did. "Can I?" he asked, his voice so quiet he was surprised the nurse heard him.

"Of course," she said, leading him away from the window and to one of the doors located on the opposite wall. Opening it, she gestured for him to enter. "You wait in here, and I'll bring him to you."

Jace stepped inside the small room, which contained nothing but a rocking chair. As the door closed behind him, Jace swallowed hard, feeling more fear than he'd ever felt before. This still didn't feel real, that this was his life now, that he was about to meet—to hold—his son. _His child_. A tiny human being that was going to be one hundred percent dependent on him for the foreseeable future. It was beyond anything he'd ever imagined.

After several minutes, the door behind him opened, and Jace turned toward it. The nurse he'd spoken with before entered, followed by another nurse and a large cart, carrying several monitors and the small bed containing his son.

Jace's heart started to pound as they wheeled the contraption all the way in and closed the door behind them. Immediately, they got to work, rearranging wires and tubes, and talking quietly amongst themselves. Jace was overwhelmed by it all, by everything he was seeing and all the feelings swirling around inside of him. He didn't know what to do with himself, didn't know whether he should sit or stand or let himself fall to his ass on the floor like he felt like doing.

The nurse who'd brought him back turned to him and gestured to the rocking chair in the corner. "Okay, Jace, take a seat there."

He didn't speak as he turned and tried to settle himself in the chair. His leg was bouncing out of control and his head felt light.

The nurse came over and started to loosen the tie of the scrubs around his neck.

"What are you doing?" he asked, surprised.

"Getting you ready."

"I need to undress to get ready?"

The nurse laughed. "Not entirely, no." She leaned back and grinned at him. "But remember what I told you about his problem maintaining body temperature?" Jace nodded. "Well, we still need to keep that up, and when he's out of the incubator, the best thing for him is skin-to-skin contact. Your body will act as his incubator. Pretty cool, huh?"

Jace blinked and nodded.

"Body heat is really even better than the machine," she continued, though now she was over at the tiny bed, unlatching the hood and pulling it off. Slipping her hands under his son's tiny body, she carefully lifted him and everything attached to him from the bed, turning toward Jace with him. "It's been proven time and time again that this type of hold, which we call the kangaroo hold, is so beneficial to both the parents and the baby, especially preemies."

The other nurse, who had yet to speak, stepped up next to Jace and pulled the front of his scrubs top out and the wifebeater he hadn't removed underneath away from his skin. And then, before he had time to think or speak or react, the other nurse situated the tiny ball of heat right over his heart.

His breath caught and his heart raced.

"Bring your hand here," the nurse said.

Jace lifted his shaking hand, and the nurse situated it so the heel of his palm was just over the baby's diapered bottom and the tips of his fingers touched the back of his head. He was so small that he literally fit in the palm of Jace's hand.

The nurses worked to manipulate the baby into a good position, moving his head to the side and rearranging all his wiring, so Jace could hold him easier. Once they were done, both of them moved away to fiddle with the machines attached to the cart, and Jace finally looked down, finally took in the little thing in his arms.

And what he saw not only made his heart skip several beats, but stole it as well.

His eyes first swept over the patch of blond hair covering his son's head. It was much more than Jace had first realized, actually having a small bit of length and a tiny twist at the back of his neck. His eyes were closed, but Jace could make out the tiny white eyelashes that fanned out from his shut lids. Through the mask, he could make out the baby's nose, Clary's nose.

There were no words, no thoughts that could have adequately described that moment, the feelings, anything. This was his son.

His _son._

He and Clary had been referring to him that way since the moment they'd found out what he was, but nothing compared to having him there, looking down at him, seeing all the parts of him and parts of Clary and how they combined to make this tiny human. It was overwhelming and fascinating and . . . breathtaking.

Jace was in awe. Complete and utter awe.

The nurses continued to bustle around, checking on him and the baby, asking him questions and talking amongst themselves, but Jace ignored them. He was too concerned, too . . . enamored to speak. He marveled at the weight in his hand, the quick breaths lifting and releasing against his chest, the super soft feel of newborn hair under his fingers. Lifting his other hand, he lightly traced a finger over the tiny fist that stretched out away from the baby's body. He felt how fragile the bones were, how easy it would be for something horrible to happen to them, and a protectiveness he never knew himself to be capable of swallowed him whole.

This little boy, along with his mother, owned his soul now.

Carefully, Jace slipped his finger under his son's closed fist, and as he did, the baby opened his hand, which was maybe the size of Jace's fingertip, and took hold of Jace's finger, his grip strong and sure. And it was that, that tiny, insignificant movement, that simple hold of his son's hand that caused Jace to break.

Tears stung his eyes and his throat squeezed so hard it hurt. Lowering his head, Jace touched his lips to the top of the tiny head, closed his eyes, and promised, with every tear that fell over his cheeks, that this little boy would always be safe, would always be loved, would always know that no matter what he did, no matter what decisions and mistakes he made, he would always be his daddy's everything.

.o.O.o.

It wasn't the pain—which was definitely evident in Clary's throat and abdomen—that finally pulled her from the depths the hazy, dreamless sleep she seemed to be trapped in.

It was an argument.

"No, Simon, you idiot," Isabelle's whisper-shout rose up above the beeping of the monitors. "You can't pull your hand away, that's cheating!"

"But how am I supposed to get my thumb out from under yours if I don't?"

"You're not. That's why it's call a pin."

"I don't think I like this game very much. You have freakishly strong thumbs."

Clary snickered, then groaned when the pain in her stomach became even more apparent. There was a scramble of chairs being pushed back and feet scuttling across the floor.

"Clary?" Isabelle's voice came again, this time from much closer. "You awake?"

"No," she rasped, immediately coughing, and then groaning again at the pain that wracked her whole body.

"Oh, the doctor said you might not want to talk much at first," Simon said. "Want some water or ice or something?"

Clary nodded and blinked open her eyes, the haze in her vision clearing after a few seconds and bringing her friends' faces into focus. Isabelle stood on one side of the bed, her face drawn and eyes tired, while Simon stood on the other, his hair sticking up all over the place and his glasses crooked, holding out a plastic cup with a spoon wedged in the top. Clary raised her brow.

His cheeks pinked slightly. "You can't sit up, so I figured this would be easier."

It was then that Clary noticed she was flat on her back. Reaching out a shaking hand, she took the cup from Simon and, as carefully as she could, scooped a bit of ice out and put it into her parched mouth, almost groaning in relief when it slid down her burning throat. Her respite didn't last long though, because as soon as that subsided, she became more and more aware of the other differences in her body. For starters, there was the pain, low and steady and sharp, and then the absence of something. Something big. Something she knew somewhere deep inside that she should be concerned about.

Her brain still sluggish and slow, it took Clary several long seconds to realize what that was, but when she did, she let out a loud gasp and her hand slipped down to cover her stomach. Panic panged inside her chest when her palm laid almost flat over a large expanse of gauze where her squirming son used to be.

And then she remembered. She remembered it all: the bright light over her head, her arms strapped down and immobile, the sheet strung in front of her, the sound of metal instruments clanging against each other, the funny smelling gas pumping through her mask, Jace's eyes fading away . . . Jace's eyes . . .

Tears started to well up and block her vision.

"Oh!" Isabelle said, leaning forward, her hands flailing over Clary. "What is it? Does it hurt? Are you okay? Simon, go get her mom!"

Clary tried to answer, to tell Isabelle that that wasn't the problem, but no words could get past the sobs. Simon hightailed it out of the room, moving faster than Clary had ever seen him before, and within minutes, he returned with Clary's mother.

"Sweetheart, you're awake," she said, crossing the room to stand where Simon had been before. Reaching out, she brushed her hand over Clary's cheek. "Shh, everything's okay. Everything's okay now."

"But—" Clary managed to choke out. "But . . . LJ . . . Jace . . . where—"

"Everyone is just fine, honey. I promise," her mother said, her voice soothing and safe.

"The baby is . . . he's okay?" Clary said, drying her own tears this time.

"Mmhmm," her mother said, smoothing Clary's hair back away from her face. "He's perfectly okay. And content. Especially in his father's arms." Her mother smiled down at her.

Clary blinked. "Jace is . . . with him."

"Oh, yes, has been since they came out to get him. See?" Clary's mother pulled a phone out of her pocket—one that looked a lot like Jace's—and pushed the button, bringing the screen to life.

Clary gasped and took the device out of her mother's hand, staring down at the bright image lighting the screen. A few more tears trailed over her cheeks, but these ones were accompanied by a smile.

She dragged her finger over the picture, taking in the way Jace looked curled around the tiny figure laying on his chest. His head was down, eyes closed, and his mouth, the corners drawn up slightly in a smile, was touching the top of the baby's head. There were so many wires and tubes obstructing the baby's face, but she could already tell that he shared his father's eyes. Clary could see so many emotions playing in Jace's expression: fear, uncertainty, relief, love. But the one that shone the brightest, the one that took her breath away more than any other could, was pride. Clary could see it there, hidden behind everything else but screaming so loud she was sure everyone else could hear it too.

And then there was their son, so small, so helpless, so _theirs_.

"He's beautiful," she whispered, tracing her finger over the wisps of blond hair on his head.

"He is," came another voice from the vicinity of the hallway, a voice that sent goosebumps up Clary's spine.

Looking away from the screen, Clary's eyes fell on the only other person who could understand the wonder and fear currently wrestling in her mind. Jace stood silhouetted in the doorway, his body still covered in the green scrubs she'd seen him in earlier, but his face . . . his face was no longer drawn and afraid. It was glowing.

He was glowing.

Clary's eyes immediately filled with tears and she let out a soft whimper, dropping the phone to the bed and holding out her arms to him. Within seconds, Jace was through the door and next to her bed, his arms carefully going around her as hers draped around him. She held him as close as she could, her face buried in the crook of his neck, his hair tickling her cheeks.

"Shh, baby, it's over now. It's all over," he said.

Clary shook her head and squeezed him tighter. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"Why are you sorry?" Jace pulled back, brushing her tears away. His fingers were so gentle, always so gentle with her.

Clary became aware that the room was empty now, and she was thankful for it. As much as she loved everyone being there to support her, to support them, Jace was the only one she needed right then. Reaching up, she pushed his hair away from his forehead. "Because we weren't ready yet, but my body sucks. I suck."

"Shut up," he said. "Your body's perfect. You're perfect." He paused. "Our son is perfect."

Clary's vision blurred once more. "Really?"

Jace swiped his fingers under her eyes. "Yeah," he said, his voice soft. "Really."

"And he really is okay? He's not—"

"He's really okay. He's small." Jace picked up Clary's hand and held it in his. "Really small. Like, he fits right here." He used her hand to trace the length of his palm. "But he's so strong, only needing a little bit of oxygen and an incubator to keep him warm. Otherwise," his voice cracked, and Clary saw his eyes start to well. She couldn't stop hers from doing the same, and she reached out for him, cupping his cheek in her hand. He leaned into it and closed his eyes, letting the tears building inside trail over his face. "Otherwise . . . baby, he's just . . . he's just amazing."

She smiled up at him. "We did okay?"

Jace shook his head and held her face in his hands, bending down to kiss each of her cheeks, her nose, her eyelids, before pulling back once more. "We did more than okay."

Clary grasped his wrists. "I can't wait to see him. To hold him."

"I can't wait for you to either. There's nothing like it. Nothing like . . . feeling him breathing and moving and . . . and there's just nothing like it."

And as Clary stared up at him, at this boy who was currently at a loss for words, so in love with the tiny human they'd created, who'd been to hell and back with her, who'd been willing to give up everything that had ever meant anything to him, who had already given up many of them, for her and for their son, she started to feel the old doubts creep back into her. All of those feelings of inadequacy, of insecurity. What if they'd made the wrong decision? What if they'd be horrible parents? What if . . .

What if they hadn't?

"Jace," Clary whispered, her voice trembling with his name. "Are we going to be okay?"

Jace paused, his eyes moving over her face, slowly, as if he were taking his time giving her his answer, taking his time to make sure it was the right one. "I think it's going to be hard. Really hard. Maybe harder than anything else we've ever done."

"But do you think we can do it?"

Jace bent down and touched his lips to hers, just softly, just enough to connect them for a moment. When he pulled back, he held her gaze. "I think as long as we're together, baby, we can do anything we want."

"And this is what you want? Me? A family? Now?"

Jace's grin was so wide Clary was afraid it would spilt his face. "This is all I've ever wanted."

And it was all Clary had ever wanted too.

Jace took her face into his hands again, holding her like he always did: like she was the most fragile, precious thing in his world. "Even if someone came and gave me a choice, told me that I could have everything back the way it was, that I could have everything I always thought I wanted, what my father wanted . . . Even if they said they would erase all the bad things that have happened to us both over the last several months, I'd still choose this. I'd choose you. I'll always choose you."

Pulling him in closer, Clary traced her fingers over his face: chin, cheeks, brows, the eyes she knew their son shared, and the mouth she hoped he did. And suddenly, all of the doubts and everything uncertain turned certain. There were no more questions, there didn't need to be. Not anymore. Not for her.

Because she'd already made her choice.

She'd made it months ago when she'd let him bandage her finger, when she'd pulled him in and kissed him, when she'd let him press her up against the bathroom door and gave him the one thing she could only give once. She'd made it when she'd first seen that plus sign, when she'd found him again and decided to befriend him, when she took his hand, when she touched his face, when she dried his tears, when she held his heart, when she'd kept his child. When she fell into his eyes, and into his arms, and into his body more times than she could count.

When she'd kept doing all those things and more over, and over, and over again.

She'd made it.

She was still making it every single day.

And as she looked up at him now, seeing the exhaustion, and worry, and pain, and relief, and joy, and love reflected in his eyes, she made it again.

"Me too," she said, touching her forehead to his. "I'll always choose you too."

It was scary and it was hard, was going to be hard for the rest of her life. Because some choices keep having to be made and keep being difficult to make, but she was ready for it. She was ready for the hard, for the impossible. For the easy.

She was ready for it all.

* * *

><p><em>XOXO ~ddpjclaf<em>


	34. Please Read

This is not an epilogue, as I am sure you can tell, and I'm so sorry to be posting this, but after talking this over with a few friends, I've decided this is really the best (and only) thing I can do at this point. Lately I've been getting so many PMs and reviews asking where the epilogue is, telling me how excited you are, begging for me to update and I just . . . can't. This is why:

Ever since I started this story, I knew where it would end. There was never a doubt in my mind. It ended with Jace and Clary in her hospital room after the baby was born. There was no more. BUT I began receiving so many PMs and reviews begging to see Jace and Clary as parents that I made a big, huge, colossal error: I thought maybe I could write it, just because you wanted it.

I shouldn't have thought that. And the reason I shouldn't have was because my brain knew the story was over after this last chapter. My brain knew that those characters were done telling me their story, and it knew this probably almost 2 years ago.

I shouldn't have promised more.

Since the last chapter I have been forcing myself to write a "future" that doesn't want to reveal itself to me. These characters have stopped talking in my ear. They are content with where I left them and they do not want to show me more. I have tried cajoling them, but it is falling on deaf ears.

So, this is what I'm going to do. I'm going to mark this story as complete. Because it is. It _is_ complete.

If these characters decide to reveal more to me, I will most definitely share it with you. Keep this story on alert and maybe someday there will be a future-take. But I can't, as a writer who is proud of her work, force this out. It's not good. What I've written so far is not good, and you-and these characters-deserve better than that. You, they, deserve better than "not good".

I'll leave this message up for a little while so everyone who's waiting will see it, then I'll add it to the end of Ch.33.

I'm sorry. I'm so sorry if you feel I've broken a promise. I just can't give you uninspired writing.

I hope you'll forgive me.

XOXO

~ddpjclaf


End file.
